Sons of War
by TheLastRider
Summary: When Eragon and Saphira disappear in the middle of a battle, Murtagh and Thorn alone discover their prisons. Unwilling to tell the Varden, but still slaves, they must keep this secret from Galbatorix while hunting for a way to be freed. Murtagh's only two legged companion, a half mad elf given to him as a reward, tries to help- but can the sons of war be freed? Bk 4
1. Chapter 1 The Siege of Belatona

Eragon roared hoarsely as Saphira dove into the thick of the battle once more, trying once more to break the lines of Empire soldiers in front of the wall. The sharp scent of charred flesh (cooking in the armor that was supposed to protect them), combined with the roar of leaping flames and the drumbeat of war, bore into his skull like a chisel. The soldiers made a wall of red, the Painless Ones poised before their city of Belatona and refusing to give up.

The Varden was losing hope with each passing moment, each passing minute of exhaustion and death without any movement to show for it. Nasuada had taken an arrow in the arm and had pulled out for medical aid, leaving Eragon to muster the heartless army.

It was like moving a mountain, or as Orik would say, chipping away an entire tree in _. Eragon was weary and the battle was still young; the elves were too far away for reinforcements; his only consolation was that Murtagh had not appeared. The Varden crawled forward and then ran back, gaining and losing ground, each time leaving behind scores of their brethren.

_ I swear, I shall be the ram if we cannot push through! Burn through!_ Saphira snarled, sending another tongue of fire amid the Empire ranks. The charred faces of the soldiers continued fighting until their necks were nothing but black stumps.

_ Fly over so we can see what's behind the gate. _Eragon told her. _We don't want your face to look like a porcupine. _

She snorted and pulled around, coasting on a warm current as they circled around the city. Screaming civilians clogged the roads as they hurried toward the keep, many looking to the sky as the Dragon Rider passed over them. Saphira torched the soldiers on the wall as they passed by, setting their trebuchets and other devices of war aflame in her anger.

Her emotions spilled into Eragon like water crashing over a fall, giving him a new burst of adrenaline. Oromis and Glaedr's deaths would never be in vain- that alone gave them strength and purpose in the fight.

_On count of three._ Saphira began, hanging in the sky for effect. _One._

Eragon began laying a shield spell over Saphira's face, to take the impact of the collision and to catch any weapons thrown at her.

_Two_.

She turned her head, tilted her wings, and the next moment, they were falling, falling, falling, the wail of the wind being the only thing Eragon could hear. Even his giddy laughter from the adrenaline was lost in the rush, and the next moment, just as he opened his eyes-

_Three!_

A mighty shudder ran through the walls of Belatona, the sound of scales, magic, and steel on the heavy doors echoing even though the noise of the battle. The Varden, for the first time, had hope, and a thundering chorus of their cheers renewed Eragon's energy.

But something was wrong.

He felt it first on his feet, like he was walking through mud. Saphira took to the sky even as her tail felt heavier, but the air seemed thick and sticky, pushing them back down.

Eragon remembered the first lesson he had from Oromis in magic- his folly of saying 'Release my calves!". The ancient language tumbled from his mouth as the spell to free them of the invisible muck took hold, but did nothing. He felt his energy rapidly draining away as Saphira torched all of the pathetic round-eared, two-leggeds within range. With a heaving gasp he cut off the magic, suddenly noticing how fuzzy his brain was. Wildly struggling to remember the ancient language, he screamed for Saphira to fly, and took hope as she spread her wings and thrust off of the bloody, charred ground.

They collided into an invisible wall, like a steel bowl had been placed over of the courtyard. Eragon could see Varden soldiers pouring into the city, but all bounced off of the force, unable to get in. The unfortunate soldiers who had been in the bowl were dead and little more than black piles of ash, while their companions were forced against the cold wall.

The twelve elves, lead by Blodgarm, failed to tear down the wall. Trianna and her hoard of magicians never got past the mass of soldiers. And as the minutes passed, darkness creeping across the landscape and turning the lake into an inky, unsettled mass, Eragon lost all memory of the ancient language, sure that the thick vapors within the shell were poisoned. Saphira thrashed and attacked the shell at every angle, but the mass had no breaks, no weakness that either could see.

"Find the magicians!" Eragon screamed through the bowl.

Blodgarm and the elves were gone the next moment, seeing that Eragon did not need any protection, but one, the thirteenth, hesitated, standing out like the moon in the black sky.

Arya, bloodied and bruised, put her hand on the wall and smiled ever so slightly, transfixing Eragon with that simple gesture. The battle raged all around her, but none dared to attack her, and Eragon had lost all notice of the intensity around them. He only saw her face, particularly the bottomless orbs making contact with his. Her green eyes bored into him like she was trying to say something without words, but he did not understand. Rather, Saphira nearly flattened him with a swipe of her tail.

But Eragon's eyes were fluttering shut; it was just so _thick_... it would be so nice to sleep... just for a little while...

Saphira found herself losing sight of the battle, forgetting why she was there... why there was so much death... why there was so much blood, and so many two-leggeds...

They collapsed simultaneously, trapped in the shell, without any recollection of reality.


	2. Chapter 2 The Whispering Prisoners

When Eragon's eyes fluttered open, he had no idea where he was. A cold, stone surface, gritty, failed to cushion his back, but his other senses quickly performed their duties. For a moment, he thought he was blind, for there was nothing but darkness around him. A minute or two of anxious waiting decided that he was in a dark room, rather than blind.

He hoped.

But, like before, something was wrong.

Something was very wrong.

Gone.

Gone.

Gone!

GONE!

"Saphira!" He meant to scream. His broken voice, on the other hand, could only whisper, the croaked words fading in the black room. She was not there to comfort him; she was not there, the part of his mind that replied to his thoughts and never lied.

She was gone.

"Saphira!" His voice was stronger this time, so that her name echoed in the room, like a thousand voices were whispering the cry on, taking it to every corner so that every being in the room would know of the plea.

But that too, faded.

And then the tears started.

Eragon did not even know where he was, or how he had gotten there. At first. But the memories came crashing down on him like a million daggers, pulling through his skull and reminding him of the thick, invisible shell and someone smiling... someone beautiful smiling at him... and darkness overwhelming him...

A blade of light cut through the darkness like steel, truly blinding Eragon while confirming that he did, in fact, have his sight.

"He's awake now. Excellent. Won't the king be pleased when he hears of this?" One raspy voice croaked.

"We shall be richly rewarded." Another smirked.

"Shall we begin our fun, or leave it all for the King?"

"Why leave it all for his majesty? He never has to know about it."

"Excellent point. Have you the tools?"

"More than what's required."

Eragon pried open his eyes eversoslightly, horror seeping into his bones as he saw the two men. Expensive, ornate clothing bedecked their globe-like bodies, smiles curved like scythes crawling across their faces. They must have been the Twin's replacements- it was evident in their bearing, their beady eyes, their hands responsible for so much bloodshed.

"Hello, Eragon." One crooned, leaning over and putting his face much too close for comfort.

To say the least, his actions were stupid.

Eragon swung his arm as hard as he could and sent the man tumbling over the cold table, a scream echoing through the room as the man hit the floor and slid several feet. The other was quicker, sending a blast at the Rider. He dove frantically, the spell lighting up the whole room. It was large, and other inhabitants lay chained to cold tables or strung to the walls, some watching the fight with hopeless eyes, others appearing dead.

Brisingr was no where in sight, and the thought of his sword suddenly prompted Eragon's memory of the ancient language. He merely lacked the strength to use it. The first magician was snarling as he heaved his bulging form from the ground, curses that Murtagh had used rolling off of his tongue.

"Where is Destruction when you want him?" The second wondered as he cowered behind a table, one eye watching Eragon.

"We don't want the Devil's spawn here! The plan, fool! Use the bloody dome!"

Eragon lept over to an awake, and sickly prisoner, who nodded before the Rider asked his question.

"Spare these old bones." The man croaked. "Please, take all of what I have left. Release me from the pain. Let me die knowing I had helped someone sometime; but do not let my death be in vain!" He whispered as Eragon hurriedly took his life away, guilty even as the man's eyes closed.

A whispered thank-you did not seem sufficient to show Eragon's appreciation.

Vigor renewed, Eragon stood to his full height and gave the magicians a death glare.

"What have you done with Saphira?" He asked, not daring to check if she was near for fear they would access his mind.

"I never touched you precious dragon." One laughed from behind a table.

"Of course, blame it all on me." The other growled. "I never touched her either."

"Where is she?" Eragon roared.

"Somewhere in Alagaesia."

"Somewhere where Shruikan or Thorn can find her."

"Somewhere where you can't reach her, and she can't reach you."

"Somewhere in the dark, alone, hungry-"

With a savage roar Eragon lept forward, fueled by his fury. Blue magic clawed towards the magicians like icy fingers, tossing one in the air while the other blocked the blow. This second one vanished as the bright magic disappeared, thrusting the room into sudden darkness.

"Save us, Shurturgal." Eragon heard, a mere breath echoing in the room and his mind.

"Release me, Argetlam."

"Kill them, Silver Hand."

The voices each began their pleas, the multitude of whispers growing into a roar, Eragon clapping his hands over his burning ears as each of the living prisoners begged for salvation. Tears began streaking down his face as each cry for mercy placed more responsibility upon his back, burdening his mind as much as his ears. Curling against a table, he scrambled to collect himself, knowing he would need clarity of mind to continue the doomed fight.

"Find the Rock of Kuthian."

That voice suddenly caught Eragon's ear, picked out from the mass of voices still imploring their need. The Rider lept up to try to follow that voice, asking who said that, but never heard any similar whisper.

And then he was gagging, his hands clamped over his mouth as the burning green gas fogged his vision and burned his throat.

"Wrong gas, fool." One of the magicians was saying. "Use the drug, not the poison. Now we'll actually have to heal him."

"Both are effective." The other argued as Eragon thudded against an invisible wall.

"One kills, the other stupefies. Take your pick- do we want the reward or not?" 

"The reward is higher for the dragoness."

"So you'll allow him to die- and let the Devil's spawn get the reward? How dare you! We had a deal!"

"Destruction is never going to know of this. We still have a deal. Besides, the Red One already has his reward."

"We should take it-"

"-And use it against him."

"Exactly."

"Great minds think alike."

"Superior minds trap their enemies."

"Superior minds _kill_ their enemies."

"We shall, someday!"

Their echoing laughter was the last thing Eragon heard as he crumpled within the dome, his mind reeling as the single voice rang in his ears.

He was alone.


	3. Chapter 3 Endless, Unspeakable Pain

**Sorry about the wait- I've been ridiculously busy with sports lately and haven't had the chance to write in my actual book. Without this, I would've been a mess. Alright, a bigger mess. :) Thanks a million to everyone who reviewed and/or subscribed**- **VisionSeer, , the Disturbed Poet, Writer of the North, artemisia81, Pimi, and Naruto the sage. **

**To Naruto the sage- Yes, the dragons will have their time! I love them too- especially how they look down on all two-leggeds. :)**

**Murtagh and Thorn have their own plotline in this story, which I'm thinking about making into a separate fanfic. I could really do such a better job on it, with plot and details, etcs. Would you people rather it be here and shorter or separate and better?  
**

**Chapter 3: Endless, Unspeakable Pain**

A biting shock, racing up his arm, jolted Eragon back to reality. Then came the true pain, as if that had merely been a pre-show, a promise of more to come. A crackled yelp tore from his lips, but he could not move, his arms and legs and head tied to the cold table like a cow for the slaughter.

"Hello, my young friend." One of the magicians laughed. "Ready to begin the day's fun?"

"Only if it means getting my hands on you." Eragon retorted.

The other, which Eragon decided to name Kurdo- Fat in the ancient language- gargled some laughter. "Not today, little prince- not ever."

"If you have the sudden urge to kill anyone, simply inform us. There are plenty of useless lives here eager for the taking." The first, Yaethung (Chunky), continued with a smile curved across his face.

Revulsion welled up in Eragon's stomach as he realized that he was in a slaughter house, that those stained walls had been the last thing some innocent people had seen; that the inhabitants were all going to die a painful death-

He was one of those inhabitants.

Yet he knew, all too well, that those magicians would not kill him- that they would never dream of such a thing. They would push him to the brink of destruction and pull him back in a bloody game of tug-of-war; Arya had the same experience with Durza. She had nearly gone insane...

That smile, so precious and gentle, sent a calm quiet though his weary mind and body. A grin of his own spread across his face as his heart started pumping faster- _she_ had_ smiled _at_ him_!- then slower- it was so _beautiful_... faster- did she return his affections?- slower- her green eyes, just the very memory of them, warming his very core...

Numbing pain burned through his veins as a deadly spell gripped his bones, rattling his whole frame, leaving him breathless and panting. The moment it vanished he felt the strong need to heave.

Fat leaned over and smiled cruelly, his yellow, brick-like teeth glinting two inches from Eragon's wary eyes. "Now, my dear guest, please answer my questions. I'm keeping a record of my experiments with the ancient language, and know that your answers will benefit the next generations. Now, how do you feel?"

Eragon clenched his teeth together so hard his jaws began trembling, forcing himself to not answer, to not stoop to the level of a mere experiment.

Fat sighed. "So be it. On to the next!"

The pain was not so great that time- at first. It started like the sharp sting of a razor slipping against skin, then grew, climbing up his leg, burning the whole way.

"Interesting, my friend." Chunky began, picking up a thin sheet off of the table. "Lots of blood, little energy. Very efficient."

He held up the sheet and smiled, Chunky's crooked look washing nausia over the defenseless Rider. They had peeled off his skin. Then again, and again, and again, until Eragon wanted to scream from the utter agony and searing torture. But he would not grant them that pleasure; he would not stoop to that level.

He hoped.

Next to suffer, once his right leg was devoid of skin from the knee down, were his fingertips. They were lit with purple fire, until they were charred black but still had feeling. Then his hair, which was drenched in an acidic potion that burned to his scalp. Each time a new spell was applied, Fat reminded Eragon of his question.

"How do you feel?"

Eragon never replied, gritting his teeth and withstanding the pain.

Just as the two were preparing their next instrument- whips embedded with bits of glass and pottery and lit on fire- a red flare shot up before them. Both lept back in horror and began acting, like they were having an argument, waving their arms and sending colorful, but harmless, spells at each other. They were excellent actors- Fat's face grew as red as the flare as beads of sweat- out of fear or fake anger, Eragon couldn't tell- collected on Chunky's wide forehead. As the flare faded they only strengthened their argument- silent but forceful- until it popped into black nothingness and faded.

Both began cursing, gathering up various implements and snarling at the other.

"You said the Devil's spawn was busy!" Chunky hissed, his forehead glistening and his eyes sharp.

"He is!" Fat cried. "He's off trying to stay alive! I don't know how he managed that."

"If the King gave him any more 'gifts' I am going to kill him at the first opportunity."

"You've been saying that for months now."

"We both know we deserve them more- especially the elf!"

"Don't even mention that one!" Fat hissed. "We both know that if any other was going to get that particular one, Galbatorix would give it to Shruikan to eat."

"But how had Destruction evaded our traps? How in the Kings name? We spent months on the last one, and he merely sidestepped it!"

"Don't ask me how, just think of a better one! You came up with the last one- don't you dare mention its failure to me!"

"You were the one to set it up!"

Another flare, black this time but shining in the gloom, burst into being.

"We must get out of here."

"You're bright." Chunky hissed, then turned to Eragon. "Sleep well, little Prince. Tomorrow we can continue our fun!"

They left the cavern, muttering to themselves the whole time, as Eragon screwed his eyes shut in utter agony. A ditty Brom had once sung came to his mind, random, yes, but encouraging all the same.

_I know a way of ease and grace,_

_ where problems never see my face._

_ But that, my friend, is not to be_

_ If I want to live always free. _

_ I must be strong, I must endure- _

_ Laziness is not the cure-_

_ For problems always will arise_

_ To take me in my own suprise_

_ But I will never bow or break_

_ Unless my life I let them take. _

_ I must be strong, I must endure,_

_ Prosperity will be assured_

_ That I had never failed my task_

_ Or hid behind a cowards mask. _

_ Others do depend on me_

_ I must be sure that they are free. _

As the last words of the song rang in his head, blissful sleep swept over him, taking away the pain, and the emptiness consuming his mind.

He was alone in body, but not in spirit.

**Please please please please please review! (Especially the poem... I know it needs therapy...) :D**

**I'll try to update soon!**


	4. Chapter 4 The Red Ones

I wanted to update earlier, but... life got in the way. So I made the chapter longer! 2,274 words- the others have been around 1,000. **Please review**- especially about Murtagh. Do you think I captured him fairly?

**Chapter 4: The Red Ones**

Murtagh loathed himself by the time he reached Uru'baen.

Gil'ead- though a victory in the Empire's eyes- had been a total failure in his mind. A disaster. Worse than getting captured, worse than torture, worse than Galbatorix stealing his true name, and infinitely worse than not knowing how to free himself. For one, Thorn lost the last three feet of his tail, and the magic necessary to repair the wound nearly killed Murtagh- he slept for three days straight, awakening only when Galbatorix himself commanded it. Secondly, they were murders.

They had slaughtered the only people who could help them.

They had killed Oromis and Glaedr, before they had even known their names; the damned King had _possessed_ them to do his dirty work.

Thorn howled once more, the strong wind carrying his scream across the countryside and sending commoners and soldiers scattering for cover. Murtagh, riding on his back, had taken a more silent lament than his dragon. He had not shed a single tear nor made a single groan- like everything else, he had buried it deep within his heart and let it smolder there, consuming him.

They wanted nothing more than to escape.

But there was no hope for them anymore; no one bothered to offer their aid or friendship. No- that was a thing of the past. 'Friend' had been dismissed from their vocabulary long ago, for they had no one to call that nor did anyone use the term to name them. Destruction had replaced 'Murtagh'; 'Devil's Spawn' for 'Son of Morzan'. Neither were improvements. But there wasn't a way to improve, now was there?

Except for the current situation. Murtagh stood before the doors to the dreaded throne room, on Galbatorix's orders, wanting to be absolutely anywhere else. Even being slaughtered by elves in Gil'ead would have been better. But he had no choice, the soldiers were opening the doors, he found his feet moving forward of their own accord...

A chill sped down Murtagh's back as he adjusted to the chill in the massive room, caused by both the company and the temperature. The King himself sat at his throne, four generals standing below the dias around a table strewn with papers and maps. Black eyes, like coal, flickered up to Murtagh as he crossed the floor, a cruel smile only enhancing the King's madness. All the generals turned and stood respectfully, silent, recognizing their superior. A few words made Murtagh's eyes as red as Thorn's scales, the only disguise he had ever found effective against Galbatorix. He couldn't read dragon eyes as easily as human ones.

"Our victor has returned at last!" The King thundered, his words echoing in the hall. Shruikan, Thorn, and Glaedr- Murtagh thought with a pain- could have all fit in the room, but dragons were not allowed. For one, Thorn's clumsiness was frankly dangerous- he could flatten the throne with one swipe of his tail or one unintended step. Secondly, Shruikan's moodiness made him untrustworthy, even to the King.

Murtagh hoped the Black One would eat the King sometime soon.

"My Lord." Murtagh said icily, kneeling before the throne and loathing every moment of it.

"Rise, my Rider! How fares Thorn?"

"He is mending, my Lord."

"Did you use any Eldunarae when you were healing him?"

"Yes, King."

"How many?"

"Three."

The King leaned back, a brooding expression crossing his face. He had underestimated the severity of the wound.

"Why not more?"

"The others were not at hand, and I did not wish to waste energy summoning them."

"They were far, then." It was not a question, the coal eyes resting once more on the Rider.

"Nearly twenty miles, my Lord."

"You could have handled that, Murtagh. You undermine your own ability, and suffer for it in the end. Why did you not take energy from the earth?"

"The elves have reason enough for hating me. Leaving a mar on their land would not have helped the situation."

"It is _my_ land." The King hissed, suddenly standing. "It is _my _kingdom, _my_ domain, and _my_ responsibility. And _they_ seek to destroy me. I will let that slip of the tongue pass once, Murtagh. Once." Lecture over, the King sat again, eyeing the map as the Vardens troops- magiced green pawns, finished taking the territory surrounding Feinster. He began glaring again.

"Which of you ordered Feinster's troops?"

An uncomfortable silence settled in the room as the generals shifted uncomfortably, both from Galbatorix's hard glare and Murtagh's red eyes.

"Do I have to ask the question again?"

"No my Lord- your Great Majesty. I assigned the three strongest magicians in the city to be the commanders since I was yet stationed here." The third general said, having found his courage.

One look from the King, and he was dead.

"Who would like to order Dras Leona?" No one volunteered. "Perhaps... some encouragement would help. A reward? Ah, yes. Murtagh." The coal eyes landed on him. "I have a gift for you, for your excellent work in Gil'ead." The King clapped twice and the doors opened, two magicians managing to carry something in midair. It was lumpy and covered in black cloth- another set of eldunari, perhaps. Murtagh would prefer books, as he had read his library three times over, but eldunari could answer his questions and debate with him, while books could not. But the lumps were too round to be books.

Murtagh froze seeing it move, then grow still again. His mind raced, thinking of possible explanations, when the doors to the throne room groaned open.

Karth and Furdor- that was their names. The names of the two head magicians, the replacements of the Twins. They were even worse- better in the King's mind. Murtagh couldn't imagine the atrocities they boasted of accomplishing.

"Excellent. We are all present. Karth, Furdor- you arrived just as Murtagh was about to reveal his gift. Shall I do the honors, Red Rider?"

Murtagh hadn't seen the King so happy since Thorn hatched. He didn't wait for Murtagh's reply, and with a wave of his hand, pulled away the black cloth.

An audible gasp ran in the room, like the souls of the people who had died there were whispering their opinions to Murtagh. He had not made a sound- not a single blink or even a twich- but inwardly he screamed why.

It was an elf. She would have been as fair as Arya if not for the remnants of a recent torture. Hair the color of flames fell around her face and pooled around her, dull compared to the swollen, angry welt across her arms and undoubtedly the rest of her. Half of her face was swollen, bruised purple, green, and yellow, like someone had put the wrong make-up around her bright green eyes. Tattered, dirty clothing hung in strips around her, showing the signs of a vicious whipping. Her eyes blinked at the men and she whimpered, rolling over and curling up.

She was broken.

Murtagh knew the signs. The dull, hopeless look in her eyes; the whimper he knew no true elf would make; her fetal position- it was as clearas if Galbatorix had screamed it into his head.

"Take her to Lord Murtagh's rooms." Galbatorix ordered the magicians, dismissing them with a wave of his hand and taking a few steps down the dias. "My lords, we have work to do. A Varden to destroy, a Rider to capture and to birth- the list seems to grow daily. Come! Who will order Dras-Leona?"

Murtagh's wandering thoughts on the elf vanished as quickly as they had come. She would probably die in a few days, and he would probably be sent on another mission before then. Anything between them would not last- nothing did.

Thorn swooped around the castle, coasting on the swirling, fresh breeze.

_"Come in, hatchling."_

Thorn tilted his wings and glided into the darkness of the dragon hold, scraping the smooth, black stone, worn from years of use by Shruikan. The younger dragon's clumsiness, though, had ruined the entry from the first day he could fly. For a moment, blindness consumed Thorn's eyes as they adjusted to the black, but then the gems started appearing.

This was his home; the only home he had ever known. He was accustomed to the many jewels embedded in the cavern walls, glinting like unseeing eyes. The tall pillars, some thicker than his legs, were normal. The dark corners where his riding tack hung had always been there, just like the massive orb that glowed whenever Shruikan willed it too. Thorn took comfort in these things; they were pieces of home. But the exquisite carvings in the walls? Not so much. They had faces; those dragons once lived, breathed, fought; they stared at him with eyes that once had seen- eyes that condemned him.

He had never liked those eyes.

_"Hatchling."_ Shruikan snapped- short tempered, as usual. _"Come here."_

Tail dragging slightly, Thorn lumbered over to the dark corner where he thought his clan leader rested. His eyes could not discern Shruikan's form- he was black enough to compare to the dark. They were equals in color alone.

But then the clan leader opened his eyes.

Red as flame, burning with the wisdom and pain of many years trapped under the King- Thorn shuddered under those eyes. They were filled with hate, like Murtagh's were filled with anger. Those eyes fell on his tail, examining the wound.

Shruikan said nothing, though Thorn heard the mighty rumble of his sigh.

_ Clan leader? Have I upset you?_ Thorn could think of no greater worse than angering Shruikan. He could, actually. Killing another clan leader, for that was what Glaedr should have been.

_You had no power over your actions, Hatchling. But I wish they had never happened, all the same. _ Shruikan, the mighty, invisible clan leader, sighed. _I wish you could have joined him, Hatchling, though I doubt the pointy-eared, two-leggeds would have ever permitted such a thing. _

_ Why, Clan Leader?_

_ You have heard Galbatorix's rants, Thorn. But the Mad Rider is unjust to the string-stick race- they are like our kind in loyalty. They would have seen it fit to kill you as soon as they could. _

_ But why? Murtagh and I can't not do what we want._

_ Nor can I, Hatchling, but someday! Someday, we will have our freedom._

_ Will the string-stick two-leggeds like us then? _

_ I do not know, Thorn. _

_ I hope they do._ Thorn yawned. _They seemed nice to me._

And so, the exhausted hatchling fell asleep, oblivious to his Rider's turmoil.

Murtagh couldn't see the city when he returned to his rooms- the darkness was too great. He dragged himself though the palace hallways, battle plans and strategy still racing through his head as he unlocked to door to his rooms. It had three locks; one with an actual lock, and two magical ones. That alone could protect his studies from prying, gossiping maids and power-hungry, magician leeches. It protected the only place he could be himself, since his mind had been opened like the pages of a book. Galbatorix never thought to search his rooms.

Books scattered the floor, some opened, others written in, and all stuffed with loose parchment. Towers were heaped on the floor while the rest were strewn across his desk, the almost- empty shelves, others floating in midair. He had to have a walkway, after all. The narrow, winding path led around the corner of the entry way and into his bedroom.

He had forgotten about the elf.

She was asleep- he thought. She faced the wall, red hair strewn across her back and the blankets of Murtagh's bed. The only sign that she was alive at all being the gentle rise and fall of her sides. Murtagh gently hooked Zar'roc beside the door and tiptoed towards the bed.

There was the chance that he wouldn't awaken her- that was what he hoped.

The moment his fingers touched her inflamed skin she jolted awake, trying to bolt. The next moment she had collapsed back into her previous position, limp as a corpse. But nothing could hide her wheezing breath and wild heart rate. Her eyes were squeezed shut, stray tears already leaking down her face.

Something about her utter helplessness, her innocence, her frail, tortured form, made him freeze. But he overcame the foreign tug in his chest as soon as it came.

Murtagh didn't bother explaining his task, laying a hand on her neck and saying the first 'waise heil', just to show that he wouldn't hurt her. That was all it took- that was all he needed to do- and so he grabbed an eldunari and set it beside her stomach.

It was Sicorro- his first eldunari, and his most trusted, glinting bronze and flaring to life the moment Murtagh touched it. _"Finish healing her. She should fall asleep soon; if not, talk to her, if she lets you."_ He instructed the dragon.

_"Where did she come from?"_ Sicorro asked, his voice reverberating in Murtagh's head.

_"Find out. I know nothing about her."_

And with that, Murtagh himself slipped under his blankets, not caring about his fair gift. Her wheezing, gasped breaths gradually slowed, the smooth whisper of her even breathing lulling Murtagh to sleep.

**Please review!** I'll make it easier for me to update. Seriously.


	5. Chapter 5 Dreams and a Strange Breakfast

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I, for one, like this chapter. Tell me if it is too thick, because there's a lot of narrative. But hey, its 2,140 words! I think I like writing from Murtagh's perspective more than Eragons... oh well. Eragon after this- I'm already a couple hundred words into the next chapter. But reviews help speed up the process... :)

**Chapter 5: Dreams and a Strange Breakfast**

Murtagh had never liked dreaming.

For one, it never aligned with reality. Secondly, it reminded him of the past- and nothing could be worse. Nothing except killing the ones who could have saved him- but that may as well have been a nightmare.

Dreaming about his mother, though, swelled into a bittersweet, toxic drink. He craved for more, but each thought of her smiling face and gentle hands brought a sickness he felt towards no one else. His love for her- she alone deserved his love- made him ache for her, knowing all the while that she had chosen Eragon over himself...

In the dream, Murtagh fought with Eragon, Zar'roc against the new sword Brisingr, in the courtyard of Morzan's castle. Both dripped with sweat, shirtless, their scars twisting and pulling as they danced around each other. They had an audience of five. Oromis and Brom stood on one side, Morzan and Galbatorix on the other, all commenting on the fight with their own encouragements.

"Relax, Eragon." Oromis said calmly, like he was merely saying that Eragon had missed a button.

Morzan was not as calm, or as reassuring. "Are you going to let the younger defeat the older, Murtagh? Are you going to fail? Are you weak? Will my sword stand under such dishonor?" He thundered, a bottle of strong gin in his hand. Murtagh blocked out his voice, concentrating on Eragon's weaknesses- his smaller size, shorter sword, his distraction from the spectators.

"Focus, Eragon! Do not let your emotions control you! Focus, and breathe!" Brom was saying, his voice filled with certainty, that Eragon _could_ do so, while Galbatorix spoke on the other side of the courtyard.

"We both what will happen if you fail, Murtagh. My war would suffer, and so would you. You know that, Murtagh. Eragon would not kill you- I would. Will you fail, Murtagh? Will you let yourself die, forever bested by your younger brother?"

Murtagh simply gritted his teeth against the pain, the spasms in his burning back, the incessant aching in his legs and arms. Here was his brother- his brother!- and he had the chance to kill him, to let him know of all the pain he had caused, to let him know what he thought of him-

"Please, Murtagh. Please stop fighting." Came the fifth voice. "Eragon, please. Don't listen to them. Please, my sons! Don't fight! Please!" Selena's voice took a new tone as the first of her tears started spilling down her face. "Please. I can't stand it- you're- you're killing me."

Murtagh shoved his shield against Eragon's stomach, toppling him, and turned towards his mother without watching his brother's reaction. He knew what it would be- shock at the unexpected move, surprise that there was a fifth spectator. She stood in the shadows, shaking even though it was a warm day, one hand resting against the courtyard wall to steady herself. Her blond hair tumbled over her shoulders, her blue eyes, bloodshot, pleading for the fight to end.

"Please." She whispered.

"Mother-" Murtagh began, crossing the space between them in two bounds. "Don't cry, please. I'll stop for you." He promised as he wiped away her tears.

A wobbling smile brightened her face eversoslightly as those blue eyes reflected hope and praise. "That's the man I birthed." She whispered, putting a gentle hand on Murtagh's cheek, not appearing to mind the sweat. "You're not evil, Murtagh. You're not like your father. Remember that, please? For me?"

Murtagh's voice had vanished, leaving him with a thick lump in his throat.

"Please, Murtagh? Don't hurt your brother. Please. That is all I ask. You are my sons, and I cannot bear the thought of you killing each other. Please."

"I have no choice, Mother." Murtagh croaked, his voice breaking as his heart did. She loved Eragon so much...

"But you do." Selena whispered, putting her hands on her shoulders and shaking him slightly. "You can break his hold on you; you can be free; you can, Murtagh. Don't you see? Galbatorix has put the key to your freedom before your eyes. You simply must see it."

"What?"

"Try, Murtagh. Just try. And more than your best, my son. Fight against him in everything. You must promise me to never stop, to never give up, to never- never!- succumb. Never." Her blue eyes seemed to cut him through, like she read the doubt off his face and attacked that first, knowing it was her strongest enemy. "You must promise me."

Murtagh nodded, slowly at first, then more vigorously, as he realized what she was saying. "Yes, Mother. Yes, I will!"

She, and the courtyard began fading, growing fuzzy as Murtagh screamed three words through the swirling colors.

"I love you!"

She did not reply, her smile vanishing just as Murtagh's mind came to itself.

Thorn's mental pestering woke Murtagh.

_Let's go flying! Shruikan taught me a new move!_ The massive hatchling crowed, his voice echoing in Murtagh's head. _Wake up, my two-legged. Don't be a stone head. _

_Give me some time, Thorn! Please, just a few minutes._

_Is something wrong? Something is wrong!_ Thorn guessed, suddenly anxious as he began pawing through Murtagh's memories of the night before.

_I'll be there soon. _Murtagh said hurriedly as he rubbed his weary face, remembering to be quiet in case the elf was still asleep.

_Who is she? Is she nice? Is she a friend? What's her name? Why did the Mad One give her to you?_ Thorn began, playing the memories of her over and over. _She seems sad. Did you fix her face? The other pointy-eared, two-leggeds would not like to see her like that. Is she your friend? Can she be my friend? I've never had a string-stick friend before! _

_ I don't know anything about her Thorn, calm down. She might die in a few days. _

_ You won't let her die, will you? She is very pretty, for a two-legged. Right? Am I right? You're going to save her, won't you? _

_ I don't know. _Murtagh repeated. _She probably wants to die. _

_ Don't let her die! I want her to be my friend! _

_ I won't go flying with you if you keep rambling on about her, Thorn._ Murtagh warned him, wanting all the questions in his head and Thorn's to just disappear- like his mother had.

_Oh._ Thorn began, seeing the flashing image of Selena. _I wish I had known my mother. _

_Someday you'll have her eldunari._ Murtagh began hopefully. _Now I'm going to take care of this elf, and then come to fly. Alright? _

_Yes!_ Thorn crowed, staying at the fringe of Murtagh's thoughts, but far enough away that Murtagh felt he had some privacy.

The Red Rider did not even glance at her when he rose from his bed and went to the washroom, leaning over the basin and staring at his haggard reflection in the mirror. His plain, brown eyes, flashing red at his command, his deep tan from hours spent in the sky, his messy, now wet, black hair, dangling before his eyes- they were the human, two-legged side of his monstrosity. He was a monster of the most deadly kind- one that had no control over himself.

_Stop_. Thorn scolded, intruding on Murtagh's morbid thoughts. _Take care of the elf, as you promised. _

Murtagh sighed, tossing a towel over his bare shoulder, and returned to his bedroom. The elf was still asleep, he thought- limply frozen, staring glassy eyed at the ceiling. He eased Sicorro from her side- with magic, of course- and tucked the eldunari under one arm as he rifled through his dresser for a shirt. (He didn't care whether or not it was clean.)

_How is she? _Murtagh asked.

_Not as well as I would have hoped. I did not manage to finish healing her, but I eased her pain._

_ What else is there left? _

_ Nothing fatal, I believe. I mended her broken bones and damaged tissue, leaving several infections, internal bleedings-_

_ Is she as badly broken mentally as she is physically?_

_ Nearly, Murtagh. She is on the verge of insanity. _

_ Her name? _

_ Are you so much of a coward that you cannot gather the courage to ask a lady her name?_ Sicorro teased. _I will not tell you, for she only gave it after I had proved that I was not hurting her. _

The crawling feeling that he was being watched ran down Murtagh's spine. He glanced over his shoulder, and sure enough, the elf was awake, ducking her head and looking down as soon as his eyes met hers. His stomach distracted him from finding a shirt, and leaving the drawer open, entered his library.

Bookshelves lined the walls, only leaving space for a single, wide window and a servant's chute. A thick, red carpet covered the floor, soothing to Murtagh's sore feet, though he had to jump from space to space, as books littered the floor. He scrawled a note asking for two platters- he emphasized platters- of breakfast, and sent it down the chute. Flopping onto his squashy, leather arm chair, he tried to gather himself together.

That chair was ironic, in his mind. He had received it from a mindless lord who had wanted him to marry his daughter- the King had decided against it. Both Murtagh and the poor girl had been relieved, though Thorn thought that having a wife would make his Rider happier.

Breakfast came up quickly- the servants had learned not to anger Galbatorix or any of his magicians. Hence Death, for the King, and Destruction, for Murtagh. Carrying both plates into his bedroom, Murtagh headed to a corner and sat down, picking up a book with one hand and an apple with the other.

His eyes flickered to the elf. Sicorro had been right- she wasn't fully healed. Her face was still a swirl of color, her welts still an angry red. Her green eyes peered at him, cautiously- fearfully. With a few mumbled words her injuries began vanishing, erased like an artist was painting her face with the right colors.

Internally, Murtagh, she is just as horrible. Sicorro reminded him.

Murtagh had always hated delving into people minds, but here, it seemed required. With a sigh and a crunchy bite of apple he invaded her head-

She recoiled like something had struck her, but Murtagh didn't see it- he felt it. She dove into a corner of her mind and cowered there, reminding him of Galbatorix's eldunari. But she was hurt- much worse than he had anticipated. Her ribs were cracked, even though Sicorro said he had mended her bones, and her intestines bruised and bleeding. Her throat looked like it had been burned- though he doubted from a liquid- and then a mottled, thriving infection grew along her spine.

He tried to give her some privacy- that's what he wanted- but he could not help passing a few memories of laughter and sword-fighting on his way out.

He blinked, returning fully to himself and the book. It was a good apple, but in truth, after all the time he had spent starving in the dungeon, any food was good. Glancing up, he started coughing at the sight of the elf staring at him.

He had thought she was pretty before- now, fully healed, she was beautiful. Her flaming hair and exquisite eyes surpassed Arya, blankly watching him. Through her beauty, he could see the gaunt look of hunger- her skin clung to her like an empty sack. He wondered how long she had spent in the dungeons. He rolled Sicorro across the floor, so she could touch the eldunari and receive some energy. Her face was devoid of emotion as her long fingers gripped the stone, though Murtagh thought he saw relief as strength returned to her weary muscles.

But food would always be more satisfying than energy.

Murtagh tossed the apple to her, aiming for it to land beside her, in case she would be frightened of it. Rather, her hand shot out and grabbed it in midair, surprise washing over both of their faces. Eyes wide, she stared at the apple and doubtfully nibbled it. By the time Murtagh had blinked it was gone. He took a piece of toast and sent it over to her. She seemed to absorb rather than eat it.

It was little more than an hour later when Murtagh finally left to go flying, leaving a healthy elf behind. He could feel her green eyes boring into him as he turned his back to her.

She could not help but stare at the strange, silent man- called a monster- who had just saved her life.

**Do you like it? Do you hate it? Do you think it's heaven or hell? Tell me! **


	6. Chapter 6 The Blue Ones

**Special thanks to TheTerribleTwos for your encouraging reviews! Here is the update you asked for! And many thank-yous to the people who have commented on the poem 'Like We Once Were'- if you haven't read it... go do so. :)  
**

There have almost been 400 visitors, and only two of them reviewed the last chapter. More please?

**Chapter 6: The Blue Captives**

Eragon lay in the darkness, stiff, frozen, and miserable, without any idea of how long he had been there. Though he was frozen, he could still feel the flames licking at his fingertips and skull; how his brains hadn't boiled was beyond his imagination. Warm blood slid down his side, oozing from broken, dried skin.

And for the first time in his life, Eragon felt like dying.

His mother was dead. Garrow was dead. Brom was dead. Murtagh was a traitor. Roran was in danger. Arya was in danger. And now, Saphira was gone.

Gone.

Gone!

GONE!

His mind felt hollow, empty, like someone had pulled all of his memories away, leaving nothing but a strangled train of thought. Thinking hurt, cutting through his head like nails or the fire that had been tested on his own frame.

He was alone.

That broken thought lasted through the pain, sharp and clear like nothing else. The people from his past marched before his eyes, all leaving him in his misery, some by death, others by force. Selena, Brom, Garrow. Then Murtagh, Roran, Arya. The dead and the living.

Uncertain sleep crept across his mind like the blackness, pushing away his cloudy thoughts and sending him spiraling into the blankness called rest. But he was an elf- nearly- and sleep was never blankness.

Always a dream, of one kind or another.

He stood in the courtyard of a great castle, sparring with Murtagh. Within a moment, he knew they were not sparring- it was a fight to the death. They were both dripping with sweat, glistening in the bright sunlight that filled the crumbling, magnificent courtyard.

"Relax, Eragon." Said a voice like honey. Eragon jolted as he realized it was Oromis, standing to the side and smiling at him. Brom- his own father!- stood beside their teacher and smiled at him, nodding an encouragement.

"Are you going to let the younger defeat the older, Murtagh? Are you going to fail? Are you weak? Will my sword stand under such dishonor?" Roared another voice, lacking Oromis' calmness.

Morzan.

Eragon had never even seen a picture of him, but the man looked like- no, was- a brute. Fury emphasized his flustered, wild face, accented by a bottle of wiskey in his hand. The liquid sloshed out as he waved his arms, bellowing all the while.

"Focus, Eragon! Do not let your emotions control you! Focus, and breathe!" Brom said, warmth seeping through Eragon's system as his father smiled at him.

"We both what will happen if you fail, Murtagh. My war would suffer, and so would you. You know that, Murtagh. Eragon would not kill you- I would. Will you fail, Murtagh? Will you let yourself die, forever bested by your younger brother?"

The new voice sent chills of horror coursing through Eragon's soul, driving away the warmth and life. Distracted, he risked a glance.

One glance- that momentary look- cut through Eragon like his voice had.

Eragon couldn't look into those black eyes; he couldn't stand that blank, threatening face.

The face of the traitor.

The face of the murderer.

The face of Galbatorix.

Eragon turned his attention back to the fight, regretting that as well. The King's words rattled through his head- ' Eragon would not kill you-'

Would he?

Eragon dared a glance at his brother's face. Sweat trickled down Murtagh's forehead, dripping down his cheeks and avoiding his tight mouth. His jaw jumped twice as Eragon glared into his eyes. They swirled with a myriad of emotions; a raging hate, first; fury, next; followed closely by... could that even be care? Could that be concern? No. No- it was beyond him. It was beyond that monster that had killed Oromis, who had slain Glaedr; who knew all the atrocities Murtagh had committed!

He _could_ kill him...

He could get rid of him, prove once and for all who was more worthy of life-

"Please, Murtagh. Please stop fighting." Said a fifth voice. "Eragon, please. Don't listen to them. Please, my sons! Don't fight! Please!"

Eragon risked a glance, losing all focus as the fifth spectator registered in his mind. Here was his mother- his mother his mother his mother his mother his mother- his _mother- _pleading for them to stop the fight, tears rolling down her face.

"Please. I can't stand it- you're- you're killing me."

The next moment Eragon was sprawled on his back in the dirt, breathless and wheezing, stars twinkling in his eyes. The fact that Murtagh's shield lay on top of him explained the situation, though why Selena was talking to _him_ was impossible to understand.

Eragon could not sort through his feelings as he watched Selena- his precious, dead mother- lecture Murtagh. She was crying, but with a wild, desperate, uncontrollably determined gleam in her eyes, shaking Murtagh's shoulders to emphasize her point. Yes, Murtagh had a hard life, but no, he did not deserve a mother's love, after all he had done. He had killed Oromis and Glaedr! He had murdered them, he had destroyed the only ones who could have helped him-

_It wasn't all his fault._ The thought cut through Eragon's warring emotions like Zar'roc had cut through Oromis. _Galbatorix possessed him. _

_ He let this happen to him! _

_ Could you have done any better, if put in his place? _

It was not his thoughts that were arguing- it was Oromis, watching Eragon pant in the dirt, his eyes scanning Eragon's mind.

_You pity him?_ Eragon raged.

_Calm down, Eragon. Do you have no compassion for your own brother? Your own friend? Once you tried to kill him, another, you tried to free him. Where is your sympathy? Your care? He did not choose his own fate, just as he did not choose his father. _

Eragon clenched his fists and turned to watch his brother, though his mother took most of his concentration. Murtagh's scar glinted in the sunlight, like how Eragon's had.

They were not the same.

Murtagh's words at their first fight as Riders could not have been more wrong. They were not the same; Eragon was free- of masters, at least- while Murtagh was nothing more than a powerful slave.

He really didn't have a choice.

Oromis smiled gently as the realization crashed down on Eragon. _You have done all you can to help him, for now. Just remember, Eragon, the day of reckoning will come, and you must be ready for it. He has sacrificed much for you, though you do not realize it. Are you willing to do the same?_

Eragon wanted to laugh at the absurdity of Oromis' words- respect alone kept his cackles at bay. _He has done nothing for me. Unless you count attempted murder and the slaughter of my beloved mentors. _

_ Do not hold our deaths against him._ Oromis said sternly, his eyes flashing. _He had so little control over it. Do you remember what he said, just before the Traitor took him?_

_ He cursed you. _

_ He cursed us for not helping, for hiding as we did all those years. Remember that, Eragon! _

_ He doesn't care for me._ Eragon sputtered. _He wants me dead, so that he can move on with his life instead of being trapped by his oaths. _

_ That doesn't mean he hates you. _

_ He wants me dead. What else defines hatred? _

_ You said yourself he is trapped by his oaths, Eragon. Think! What else did he promise you, that day on the Burning Plains? _

_ He swore that he would never die for anyone-_

_ Wrong!_ Oromis interrupted, forgetting all cordiality and turning a stern pair of eyes on the offender. _He swore he would not die for any stranger. _

_ What's the difference? We are nothing alike- I hardly know him anymore. _

_ You hardly know him, but he still knows you. He still remembers you as a friend, Eragon. You were the only friend he ever had. _

_ That's not true, Oromis-elda! He had Tornac, and Nasuada visited him in Farthen-Dur, and he has Thorn. _

_ And he had you. You were the only one to ever treat him as an equal, and he has not forgotten that. _

_ You don't know that. _Eragon argued.

_No, I don't. But all the same, no one who has little forgets the times he had much. _

Brom was watching Murtagh and Selena, an unreadable expression across his face.

_Father? _

Brom smiled as Eragon used the foreign word, his mouth toying with the new taste. _He is not his father, Eragon. You cannot use that against him, and it does seem that he wants an escape. And who can blame him? _

_ He wants an excuse to be evil!_ Eragon cried. _After everything that everyone has done to him? Who wouldn't want revenge? _

_ This is not his type of revenge._ Brom began. _I knew him as an innocent child; this man who you see as a monster is no more than that child pushed and prodded into the costume of a hardened soldier. There is more to him than meets the eye. _

_ But-_

_ Let it go, Eragon. I see we cannot convince you, and that time alone will change your mind. Focus on the task at hand. _

_ And what is that? _

_ Freeing youself._ Brom mused. _And you might find some unexpected help_.

Saphira huddled in the darkness, cold, hungry, and utterly alone. The wretched, cursed two-legged, round-eared magic users had just left, leaving her to shudder and bleed in the empty cave. Their words had done nothing to effect her spirit, merely her body.

She was going to kill them.

Every passing minute created a new scenario, a new way she could take their lives away. She could tear them limb from limb- a very bloody death, fitting considering their hobby of torture- she could burn them alive; she could turn their dome on themselves and take them to some high mountain and chain them there for a snack later on. Each option grew more and more elaborate, to the point where she considered sharing one of them with the elves, so they could glean information from them. And then, she would eat them.

They would taste disgusting, of course; but it would be a very sweet revenge.

Revenge for capturing her.

Revenge for taking _her_ two-legged and _her_ Rider.

Revenge for hurting her, and undoubtedly Eragon as well.

Revenge for everyone else they had hurt and everyone else they had killed.

They were evil, and they would die.

And she would be happy.

Solitude had its advantages. For example, she could roar and scream and send fire into every corner of the chamber and not have to worry about hurting any pathetic two-legged. But it also gave her the chance to think things through- besides their death- and decide several things for herself.

Murtagh and Thorn would suffer for killing Oromis and Glaedr. They would know her fury and her fire; they would regret their fell deed. But she would not kill them; they deserved nothing more than mere life.

The Red Ones would be set free, so that stunted-thoughts Thorn could live like a true dragon. She would banish him to some deserted corner of the world, only to see him when she so desired and only to release him when she so chose. That would be her revenge; to know that even when she had set them free of the King, they still had superiors.

And she would be happy.

And she would have Eragon with her, to rule the sky and help the Varden and string-stick race and the men under the mountains and the horned ones to rebuild everything the Traitor had taken away.

And she would be free and happy.

**Well? Do you like it? Did you like Saphira's POV? (I added that on impulse- really, this whole chapter wasn't planned. :P ) - did you like my rant about misquoting Murtagh? :) PLEASE Review! **


	7. Chapter 7 Another Miserable Day

Sorry everyone- I wanted to post this sooner, but life got in the way. Same old, same old. Review review review review review!

Just on a side note, I named this story after the Two Steps From Hell song. They're an amazing orchestra- I listen to them as I write. :)

**Chapter 7: Another Miserable Day**

Nothing compared to spiraling in the air, diving through the clouds and speeding towards the ground, only to pull up in the last moment and glide over the green earth. Nothing. Flying- the exhilarating, incomparable bliss of it. Everything else became a chore, after flying; nothing held the adrenaline or the pure joy.

Especially war councils.

Murtagh was not particularly loyal to either side- Galbatorix was, after all, a mad king, and the Varden had no plan for if they defeated him. Nasuada would simply become queen, and then what? They'd be risking the system once more. Thorn had no position either- besides that of a pawn- simply wanting to be free before he died.

The only benefit of this particular council seemed to be that Galbatorix would not be in attendance. He evidently had several rebellious eldunari to overpower. Again.

The Council Chambers- where all of the King's maps and such were kept- equaled the throne room in care, designed to inspire and empower. The windowless, dark room housed more books than Murtagh could ever dream of reading, a few by the King himself.

Not all of the generals had arrived, and instead of talking to the ones who were there, Murtagh chose the company of a book. He had barely finished the third page when a scraggly voice interrupted him.

"Lord Murtagh? I wanted the pleasure of introducing myself to you." The newest general began, his voice grating against Murtagh's nerves. The son of Morzan decided the book was more interesting, not bothering to glance up.

"My name is Drakan Regorsson."

Murtagh didn't care. He had no reason too.

"I have taken charge of the defense of Dras-Leona."

He'd be dead in a week.

"I was wondering if I would have your support in that battle, Lord Murtagh."

Murtagh should have seen it coming, with such an inexperienced general.

"Inecthan." Murtagh growled. No.

"I do not speak the ancient language, sir."

This was new. A non-magician general. Murtagh glanced up and studied the man's face. Plain and haggard- like he had simple origins and then was tortured.

"It's no use asking him, Drakan." Thatchic, Galbatorix's favorite commander, and the only decent one in Murtagh's opinion, interrupted. "The Lord Murtagh responds to no one but the King."

How true.

"Should I ask the King directly, then?"

"Only if you want to die."

"Could I have the support of your troops then, General Thatchic?"

"Only if the King approves."

"Would it be safe to ask him for that?"

"Unlikely."

"Then how the bloody am I supposed to get a decent force? I need at least three thousand more, fewer if they are Painless. Can no one give me that?"

"Use your own men. There is enough for Dras-Leona. Pull in the men of that city. Use their own people, for heavens sake. We have uses for our own soldiers."

"None of mine are the Painless Ones."

The other three generals whistled with surprise, as well as pity.

"I'll take a bribe or two." General Kennif laughed, delighted at the prospect.

"I'll take a steeper bribe." Another, Commander Jerrus, guffawed.

"I'm willing to listen." Drakan told them. He certainly was a crafty one, to be risking this. Galbatorix would take enjoyment in the court politics and scandals, but not if it meant half his army was massacred. Murtagh's ears twitched as he listened.

The two generals laughed as Thatchic scowled. Only the old were virtuous in times of war. The old and the suicidal.

"Three hundred thousand in gold." Kennif decided.

"I'll take more." Jerrus laughed. "Give me a Rider's sword and three hundred thousand gold, and maybe we can talk."

"What color would you like?" Drakan asked, his voice suddenly smooth and cheerful.

The room grew silent, even the librarian- a shriveled old man- stopping to stare. Murtagh kept his face to the book, but his eyes darted over to Drakan.

Jerrus was the first to break the silence. "You're not serious."

"I perfectly am. Brown, gold, silver, blue, or green? I have them all."

"What are their names? I don't believe you! The King has all the Rider's swords." Kennif thundered, his face growing red.

"My own collection, though nothing compared to his, is what caught the King's attention in my favor. There is Eldmir, Tar-Surion, Varimelde, Tar'xuh, and Undbitr."

The room was silent once more, until the door opened and the fifth general joined them, his eyes suspiciously scanning the room.

"I've missed something."

"You have my troops." Kennif promised.

Jerrus, though, was more suspicious. "An elf, too. I want an elf as well."

Murtagh was silent, though rage was starting to seep through his system. Whatever elf Jerrus chose would truly have a miserable life.

"The elves will be joining me at Dras-Leona, Commander Jerrus. If you come, you will have your pick of them." Drakan laughed, his brown eyes gleaming with greed and pleasure at the trap he was weaving. All three of them wanted death, then. They were risking too much for Dras-Leona and not enough for Uru'baen.

Murtagh let his morbid pleasure settle. They were putting too many troops there, leaving the capital relatively undefended. The Varden, if they had any sense, would charge through as soon as they could. They certainly did not want to hemiate and still have to a war to pick up again in spring. The sooner they came, the sooner he could potentially be free.

Or not.

He knew better than most- if not all- the King's strength both on the field of battle and off. The Varden only had hope if they... if they did something brilliantly stupid. The King did not have any obvious weaknesses, besides his own vanity. And insanity, if that could be called a weakness.

"End your bartering, I did not come here to listen to it." General Thatchic snarled, interrupting Jerrus. "I came here for a Council of War, and I will not leave until we have settled the key problems of transportation, the number of the Painless Ones, their families' payment, and the total number of magicians available."

Murtagh's eyes only left the book twice during the whole meeting, one to glance at a map, another time to study a chart. His definition of study was a three-second scan. He understood the problems and how to solve them; but they weren't his responsibility, and thus, he had no reason to help the idiots debating how much pork a legion of the Painless Ones should be allotted. They were wasting time, but time no longer had meaning to Murtagh.

He had no reason to pay attention- to seriously focus- until the black letter came through the door.

Jerrus shut up as soon as it skidded across the table, sending maps, charts, tables, and scrolls onto the floor. All silenced at the sight of the black letter, sealed by Galbatorix's own ring. Having never seen one of the King's personal notes, Drakan reached out to grab it as Murtagh glared at the little paper, carrying his next doom. It dodged Drakan's searching hands and lept into Murtagh's fingers.

_Dammit._

Without a word, Murtagh's eyes flew down the page, the red ink gleaming like blood in the torchlight. It was still wet, smearing across his fingers and the rest of Galbatorix's order.

"Lord Murtagh? Does the King ask anything of us?" General Thatchic inquired. He, more than any of the other men, knew what the letter probably said.

Murtagh glared at all of them, letting his eyes recede into Thorn's red color.

"The King wants all of you to report to him once you have finished. You will dine with him. He will kill you if you are late, and if your solutions are unsatisfactory to him."

Murtagh tossed the letter into the air, letting it explode in a burst of angry flames. He turned to leave, ignoring their questioning stares.

"Where are you going, Lord Murtagh?" Drakan asked smoothly.

Murtagh did not answer verbally, deciding that a hard burst of magic suited for a reply. Drakan flew across the room and crashed into the wall, gasping and coughing amid the rubble and dust. The librarian sputtered indignantly, immediately beginning to clean up.

"Any other questions?" Murtagh snarled, now furious.

He swore the whole way to the dragon hold, smashing whatever he could as he went. Hence the name Destruction- the staff preferred his fits of rage over Death's. Maids scuttled away as he charged through, one companion trailing his every move.

"Son of Morzan off to kill another unfortunate soul, I see." Kidasku, Uru'baen's werecat, began as he loped beside Murtagh. "Shall I tell your elf you're off, and won't be back for a few days?"

More curses, on Murtagh's part.

"I see, then. Well, if you happen across anyone I might know, give them my kind regards. Please try not to kill them- that would be unfortunate for both of us, seeing that help may be found in the most unlikely of places."

Murtagh whirled around to face the werecat, whose teeth glinted as he smiled. "What do you know of that?"

"Nothing in particular." Kidasku replied, laughter playing in his eyes.

"Tell me!" Murtagh thundered, his voice echoing through the hallway.

"I think not. Perhaps some other time." Kidasku replied, and morphed into a cat, darting away before Murtagh could catch him.

_Where are you, Rider of Mine?_ Thorn asked.

Murtagh swore some more, just to vent. Thorn probably wouldn't want to listen to his curses the whole way to the castle.

_Alright then. I'm ready whenever you are. Even if that's never._ A pause. _I don't even know where we're going_.

Explosive cursing was the verbal reply, though images flitted across Murtagh's memory and reached Thorn.

_Oh._

Morzan's castle lacked the coldness that Uru'baen held; it burned. It burned with years of fury and death that Morzan and the Black Hand had controlled, and the flame was just starting to sputter for lack of fuel. Murtagh technically owned the castle, but he loathed it even more than Uru'baen because of the nightmares from his past. And he was going there to kill- no matter that the servant was a spy- and live up to his father's persona once more.

Another assassination for Destruction, another day in the life of the Devil's swawn.

The elf did not cross his mind- merely his overwhelming fury.

**The elf comes up soon! Next chapter- if I get enough reviews... :) **

**So did you like this chapter? Do you feel like it was filler? Or can any of you see the story taking shape, and how this chapter is important? Feel free to ask me questions, etc. I love answering them! **


	8. Chapter 8 Murderer, Monster

You people are AMAZING! I didn't expect such great reviews on the last chapter!

TheTerribleTwos- the letter was one of Galbatorix's private notes, ordering Murtagh on an assassination mission. It's black like Shruikan (hint hint) and is the primary form of communication for the King, since it is magically geared to avoid everyone except the intended recepient. That's why it dodged Drakan's hands and went straight to Murtagh.

Naruto the sage- I like Fat and Chunky too. They're fun (but hard) to write.

Restrained. Freedom- Murtagh has the only captured elf, and she was so broken that Galby found her useless. So at the moment, she's not dangerous at all. The other generals assumed that if they ever got an elf, it would be the same way, and they wouldn't have to worry about housing a potential enemy. I'm glad you liked the part with Kidasku- I came up with it on the fly and was quite pleased.

Astenbuad- I am SO GLAD someone noticed the part about Brom's sword! I was just hoping someone would... :D

**Chapter 8: Murderer Monster**

The deteriorating castle welcomed the Red Ones with as much enthusiasm as the dead. No one came out into the entryway, and no one was caught looking out the windows. It wasn't much of a surprise, since there were only ten servants. Nine, once he left. Fewer, if any of them dared defending the 'traitor'.

Murtagh loathed assassination jobs. One, they were just ugly, tending on the violent side. Two, any witnesses would forever remember him as a heartless, cruel killer.

If they didn't already.

One benefit remained- a chance to get away from Uru'baen. Thorn and he loved simply gliding over the countryside, as long as the civilians weren't screaming, and seeing the rest of the world. At times they came across the army or spied on the Varden, though the latter was rare. Neither could risk seeing Eragon or Saphira, for it set off their vows to capture them. And _that_ never turned out well.

Thorn's claws scraped the stone of the dragon hold's entrance as he slipped on the slick marble. The overnight drizzle passed the Red Ones unnoticed, thanks to Murtagh's shield, but the world looked like it had cried, dark streaks heading for the wrinkles of the earth. Murtagh realized that the servants would indeed be crying soon- he felt their panic at his arrival, that one madly rushed to leave-

As light as an elf Murtagh dismounted and bounded up the stairs to the castle, trying to ignore the gashes that criss-crossed the walls. Morzan's fits had never improved the mansion, to say the least. He took a spiral staircase that branched to the left, taking him to the cellar underneath the kitchen.

"Hurry Mila, no, don't pack tomatoes. They won't help you at all. Go for potatoes. They're a bit heavier, but more filling."

"Here are a few more pants, and I grabbed another cloak."

Murtagh slunk into the shadows, watching the hasty preparations of a sixteen year old girl. Her hair was coming loose from its bun underneath a cap, her frantic movements throwing clothing and food into a sack. Two other servants- one an old, wrinkled lady, the other, a stable boy- tried to help her.

"I should have left weeks ago!" Mila cried, her fingers fumbling as they tied a knot. "I should have left as soon as those magicians started coming, oh no oh no oh no! I'm going to die all alone, torn to shreds by some wild animal-"

"Hush, Mila. We don't know where the master is, or who he's after. And don't say such things about your own death- heavens alive, where are your senses? Follow the plan."

"No one will be ready!"

"No, but they will hurry to help you. Now go! Out the back door, remember, and be quiet. Don't shriek if you see him, please."

"I can't do this!" Mila lamented, pulling her hair as tears started leaking from her eyes. "I can't I can't- I just can't!"

"You can and you will." The young man said calmly, clearly, kneeling next to her and putting her hands into his. "You must, Mila. Your father would die in utter anguish if he knew that you weren't safe."

"He's going to die anyway." Mila shuddered, her whisper as hopeless as a black night.

"But you're not." The young man whispered back, his face inches from hers. Murtagh flattened himself against the wall, realizing that the girl was not the traitor, but the elderly man in the dining hall.

"I must finish preparing dinner." The wrinkled lady began, putting a gentle hand on Mila's shoulder. "Be strong, dear. You can last through this. You must, for our sakes. Goodbye." And with that, the cook left, straightening her cap and rolling up her sleeves as she ascended the stairs in the room's corner.

"Did you hear her, Mila?" The young man began. "Do you understand, love?"

"Come with me, Landon." She begged. "Please! I can't do this alone."

"I will come as soon as I can, love, you know I can't come now but I will-"

Mila buried her head into his shoulder as the icy walls around Murtagh's conscience began building upwards again...

_Murtagh, part of the dragon hold is missing_. Thorn began. _There's a new wall here- I don't know where it came from. _

Murtagh wasn't paying Thorn his due attention, his eyes riveted on the young, weeping couple before him.

"Oh Mila..." Landon began, his voice weak. "You have to go."

"Yes, she does." Murtagh agreed, stepping out of the shadows.

The horror that crossed their faces burned Murtagh like a flaming sword. Mila looked on the verge of fainting, pale and jaw hanging loose. Landon, too, wore a cross between fear and hate, as they sat there unarmed, defenseless-

"Go on, Mila. You should leave, considering that your father thinks I will kill you."

"You won't lay a finger on her." Landon snarled, his courage rebuilt.

"I could, but I won't, considering that she is not my target." Murtagh replied, taking a step forward. The sound of his boot hitting the floor echoed in the room like a wave of doom as Mila curled up closer to her precious Landon. "You should go, Mila. Go on and aid the Varden to victory; I don't care."

"You will be the death of us!" Landon cried, leaping to his feet and hoisting Mila up beside him. "You murderer! Traitor! Son of Misery! You-"

"Every word you say puts her at risk." Murtagh hissed, drawing Zar'roc and pointing it at Mila.

"Are you finished?"

Landon nodded sharply, Murtagh noticing that Mila's fingers were white from clinging to him.

"What did you say about magicians?"

Silence.

"You will answer me." Murtagh snarled, taking two steps forward.

"Two magicians have been coming here for the past few weeks, they brought something with them, but we don't know what; they come at night and leave in the morning, and sometimes the castle shakes, and they're evil, and other days we hear moaning, but we're not sure if it's a curse to scare us, and sometimes we have to cook or work for them, and-" Mila blubbered

"What do they look like?"

She shuddered. "Deep set eyes, not as tall as you-"

"Fat, both of them."

"- richly clothed-"

"Pure evil, I swear."

That was enough for Murtagh, and a burning fury welled up in his heart. Without paying attention to the rest of their blathering, or their desperate whispers of love, he charged up the stairs to finish what he had come to do.

"Lord Murtagh." A butler began, crossing his path. "Can I be of assistance?"

Murtagh ignored him, leaving him anxious and uncertain, and entered the dining hall. A table, loaded with a feast, waited for him, an older man sitting silently there. Murtagh slowed as he reached the buffet, watching the man with suspicion.

"Hello, my Lord." The man began. His hands trembled, and his voice was quiet.

Murtagh did not reply, sitting down and putting his feet on the table. It was his castle, and his table anyway. He pulled out Zar'roc and balanced it between his knees, letting it catch the light and reflect over the table.

"I know why you came, my Lord, and I will not deny any of my actions."

He wanted to die then. He was an idiot, to be sure, but at least he had loyalty.

"I believe the King is insane."

That made two, at least.

"His rule is arbitrary and tyrannical."

Obviously.

"And I will not support one such man."

Who would, besides those who wished to take his power?

The man took a shaking breath before continuing; "Kill me, Lord Murtagh. Kill me and be done with it."

Murtagh's eyes flickered to the servant, studying his face. Fear, foremostly, then stubbornness, hid in his pale face.

"How long have you worked here, Jakolm?"

"My whole life, my Lord."

"And how long have you been working for the Varden?"

"Six months now."

"Do you feel you have made an impact on the war?"

The servant paused, his eyes furrowing together. "Yes, sir. I have been warning them of scouting parties, sir, and that alone has saved many of their lives."

"And why would you tell me that?"

"I am about to die anyway, sir. There is no harm done by telling the Truth."

Murtagh paused, distracted by the red light falling on a goblet of red wine. Here was a man he did not understand- only on a different spectrum than Galbatorix.

"And what of Eragon? What have you heard?"

"I never knew such information, sir, except rumors from battles and such."

"Do you assume he is with the Varden?"

"Perhaps, though I would think he would be mourning with the elves."

Murtagh agreed silently, his eyes still on the light. The reflection unnerved Jakolm, apparent through his unsettled posture and nervous glances at it. The silence, though, tore him apart. Murtagh had found that his silence was stronger than words, at times.

"Wine, my Lord?" Jakolm asked, gesturing at the bottle.

Very little compared to Murtagh's loathing of wine, especially in that room. He yanked the bottle from Jakolm's hands and flung it against a wall, pleased by the sound of it smashing into a thousand scraps. Magic allowed him to turn it into a fine dust.

Murtagh glared at Jakolm, now that the man had aroused his anger.

"Give me a reason to not kill you." He hissed.

"Because you could learn some things from me, I can help-"

Disloyalty- rage, fiery and fierce, swept through Murtagh's senses as Jakolm began promising things he no longer controlled in a desperate attempt to save his life.

Words lacked the emphasis Murtagh wanted, and so he stood, red eyes blazing, Zar'roc in hand.

Jakolm shrank against his seat, trembling with fear but not moving.

"I know- I know how to- I can help you-" He blubbered, hands gripping the table so tightly that his white knuckles rapidly turned purple, "I know what to do-"

Murtagh raised Zar'roc as the man trembled before him, as powerless as an infant, his eyes wide as Zar'roc sliced through the air-

"Find the Rock of Ku-!"

And he was dead, his head hitting the floor and rolling on the floor.

Murtagh's fury overwhelmed his curiosity, and as Thorn ordered him to get a grip on himself, Murtagh downed the goblet of wine. The alcohol sent a shudder down his spine, not because of the sweet taste or miserable memories associated with it, but out of horror. Horror of who he was, what he had become-

He was a monster.

_Stop it. I'm more of a monster than you are._ Thorn argued.

Everything about the castle- that wretched place- threw Murtagh out of his protected shell and into an unendurable mix of memory, pain, and emotions he did not want to have-

The castle shuddered like the mountain itself lived, moaning its captivity under the masonry.

_Part of the dragon hold is missing._ Thorn repeated. _It's gone- a new wall has replaced my favorite sleeping spot._

_Did something cave in?_

_No_.

Murtagh leaned against the cold table to pause and think, as cohesively as he could. _Did you __trigger a spell? _

_Very possibly- as soon as I charged the wall the mountain began moving_.

_You were shaking the stone, Thorn._

_No- besides that. Something is on the other side of it. _

Murtagh extended his mind, reluctantly, and found nothing but an abyss in the sealed off portion of the dragon hold. A speck of a mind- something with the capacity of an insect- rested there, but nothing more. He exited the dining room and began wandering through the castle, distracted by his thoughts rather than where he was headed.

_Those magicians must be hiding something there._ Thorn decided.

_They're insane to hide something here. It won't take long for us to figure out what it is, Thorn. _

_ Not now? That's okay- I know, my two-legged. _Thorn began, trying to sort through the assortment of feelings Murtagh wallowed in. _Let's go flying. Maybe I'll find a deer tonight._

A flicker of a smile crossed Murtagh's face- nothing would make Thorn happier than actually hunting, finding his own food for once.

That smile vanished as soon as he realized where he was- not two spans away, a door hung loosely on one hinge, half-open-

Murtagh could see the stain forever scarred into the wood floor- brown now, after so long, after so many years-

The pain ripped up his back once more at the mere memory of that nightmarish day, the day his own father had decided to kill him-

His body took over as his mind froze in horror, sending him thundering down the hallway in the opposite direction, past his childhood bedroom, his father's library, the courtyard -reminding him of the strange dream- each step jarring haunting memories from the depths of his dark mind. He charged through the nightmare and practically threw himself down the corridor that led to the dragon hold, mind racing faster than his legs-

Thorn was ready when he arrived, and the next moment, they were gone, flying from Murtagh's personal hell.

I'll update as soon as I can- hopefully by next Wednesday. The elf is up next! I **promise**!

Theories, anyone? I'd love to hear your ideas!

And on the note of critiquing, did you people like the section with Mila and Landon? Was it a waste of words? I hoped it would provide a contrast to show how lonely Murtagh is, and how he has nobody but Thorn to care for him. Did anyone notice a change in character, from Murtagh in Uru'baen to Morzan's (Murtagh's) castle?

Until next time!


	9. Chapter 9 A Name

Astenbuad- The Landon and Mila part wasn't filler simply because I had a definite purpose for them. But yes, there is that possibility of Mila knowing a few things... :)

The reviews were great! Please please please please keep it up! And please- for my sake- critique my writing.

**Chapter 9: A Name**

Galbatorix was waiting in the dragon hold when they arrived, Murtagh's mind slipping back into its stoic mask. Caution proved itself necessary; he did not appear happy.

Shruikan had been roaring again. The King basked in the fear that the sound aroused, but not the problems it caused him. The castle had a tendency to crack and split in the older sections, and Shruikan only aggravated the problem. The King also wanted to save the best of that sound for the day of reckoning; the day when he would fly out and reveal his wrath to _his_ land.

Shruikan, on the other hand, did not particularly appreciate that plan. For one, he was lazy and fat, and two, he loathed the thought of the King on his back. The last time that had happened was the day Galbatorix came to Uru'baen and overtook it. They didn't have a healthy relationship; the King saw the black dragon as an intelligent tool, while Shruikan had festered the wounds of a century past, inflaming his resentment over his Rider's death, his own capture, and then his part in the destruction of the dragons.

_Shall we wait awhile?_ Thorn asked, skeptically eying the dragon hold.

Murtagh nodded, taking a firmer hold of the horn as Thorn banked to the left-

"Get in here right now you useless boy! Get in here before I have your head!" The King thundered, glimpsing their return. His outline stood out in the dark opening, gold and blue against the black.

Murtagh only dared to hope for a verbal lashing, dismounting quickly and kneeling before the King.

It was a futile hope.

As soon as his head dipped down the King's fist slammed into it, sending him sprawling away from the opening. Thorn whimpered as Murtagh blinked to regain his sight, only to watch the King's shadow loom over him.

"Where is he?" Galbatorix shrieked. "Where is that stupid boy?"

A kick followed the hit, Murtagh doubling over, furious yet powerless, the object of the King's wrath. He sealed his lips shut- the King would not have the pleasure of hearing his scream.

"Where- is- that- stupid- farm-boy?" The King thundered, taking Murtagh by the collar and punching him once- twice- five times, one with each word. Throwing Murtagh down, he began pacing, his eyes combing the marble for answers it did not hold.

Murtagh spat out the blood that swam in his mouth, glaring as soon as the King turned away. How much he wanted to kill that man-

"Stand up, you oaf. You worthless idiot! Get up! Where is that damned brother of yours? Where?"

Murtagh did not reply, only having Jakolm's answer.

_His spies report no sight of Eragon or Saphira, both with the elves or the Varden._ Shruikan explained. _The King was planning on sending you to capture him- again- only with Bid'daum. He does not wish to simply send you off to look for him, and so is planning on having you capture a handful of the enemy and pull the fact from them._

With Bid'daum- that was no small thing. Bid'daum being the original Eragon's dragon, his eldunari was both old and powerful. It had taken Galbatorix nearly his entire reign to overpower him, and that alone had been his greatest joy. Greater than Thorn hatching or the creation of the Painless Ones, it had expanded his powers to a such a degree that the King had the confidence he could single-handedly defend the castle and capture Eragon simultaneously. _Jakolm suggested with the elves, mourning the loss of their Rider. _

_ The King knows that, but is not sure how you could capture him if he sent you there. He cannot risk you being overwhelmed, and he is sure of the elves fury. I listened to him rant about it last night. _

_ Make him stop! _Thorn pleaded as Murtagh tasted the King's boot.

_By no means, hatchling. I shall anger him even further. _Shruikan crowed, tramping out to the entryway and opening his black wings.

It was a sweet revenge, for Shruikan, and both the Red Ones knew it. One moment the King was directing his fury on Murtagh, the next, at the retreating form of his black dragon. He bellowed his wrath at the dragon, who mocked him back with a tongue of fire.

"Curse you, foul creature! Would only my sweet Javornask still be here, rather than the scum that you are!"

_Rather that my dead Kithrin would rise up from his grave and kill you, sparing this miserable kingdom from your lowly filth! _Shruikan screamed back, a roar shaking the castle.

"Would I have Morzan back, rather than his pathetic son!" Galbatorix cried, halting Murtagh in his retreat towards the door.

The pain started in his scull, where the King tore away his shields and dove into his mind, rooting through his memories and scanning over the success of his mission. But the King wanted something to punish -anything- and once more, Murtagh paid for saving Eragon in Gil'ead, pulling him out of prison, then for siding with the Varden, for defending Eragon, for not finding out more news from Jakolm-

The pain ripped through his back like his scar had been torn open, burning like lightning and killing him-

It ended with the King's exit, several torturous hours later.

He had to rely on Thorn's strength to last him to his rooms, dragging himself through the dark castle and choking back the throbbing pain that flared with every step. His calves were shredded- his boots, soaked with his own blood, left a red trail as he limped along. His arms were striped with the marks of whips, while his chest and back bore the same. His black eyes, broken nose, and bleeding lips reminded him of the King's first blows, while the blotchy purple and black bruises on his abs heralded the second hit.

The door opened on Thorn's command, and nothing ever felt as wonderful as Murtagh's bed as he flung himself down, being careful to not hurt his nose. Trembling, he tried to calm down and breathe, when the creak of rusting hinges reminded him that the elf girl was there.

He didn't care. He just wanted to sleep.

He did not hear her padding forward; he did not realize that she stood beside him, confusion and torment in her eyes.

But he did feel her touch.

Her cool hand rested on his inflamed shoulder, soft and gentle, and the following spell erased his pain like water on fire. He heard the snip of scissors- where did she get them?- as she cut away his ruined shirt, and then felt the crawling sensation of his skin growing over the wounds, healing-

His mother had done the same thing when Morzan had ripped him apart. Murtagh remembered her careful fingers, her voice soothing yet pained through his screams, as Morzan blacked out on a couch.

He fell fast asleep once the painful pop of his nose (being reset) faded.

Morning found him stiff and sore, not wanting to wake up, not wanting to move.

_Good morning, rock head._ Thorn began. His tone acted cheerful, but Murtagh felt the anxiety behind it.

Murtagh mumbled something about sleeping in to his dragon.

_Can you get up?_

_ Not that I want too. _

_ You should._

_ I don't want too. _

_ Kidasku is here, in the dragon hold._ Thorn began. _He said he likes your elf_.

Murtagh rolled over, but found the other half of his bed cold and neat, like she hadn't slept in it. His grogginess remained as he scanned the room, but she was not there.

_He said she was afraid._ Thorn continued. _Of everything- not just you. He said she wasn't quite in her right mind, but that Sicorro was helping her remember everything. _

_ Remember what?_

_ Everything._

_ Everything as in what?_

_ Everything. _

Murtagh grumbled.

_He didn't go into details_. Thorn explained. _But evidently she knows her name, now_.

_How long was she tortured?_

_ I don't know. _

_ Ask Kidasku._

Thorn did so. _He doesn't know either. _

Murtagh grumbled and groaned as he tumbled- literally- out of bed. His first thought was food, but a platter was already waiting for him, steaming on his dresser.

His cleared dresser.

The room was _clean_.

Murtagh had never enjoyed housework- granted, he never really had to do any, until he came to Uru'baen. Then he had to keep clean laundry (at least, semi-clean), and deal with the dishes that accumulated faster than he realized. And then the books, more numerous than his scars, which littered the floor and dresser and towered in corners rather than sitting on the shelves. Normally he kicked a path through the piles of clothing and assortment of other unused items, but now there was no need.

The room looked strange, frankly. Larger than he remembered and foreign. The books lined like soldiers on the shelves, ordered by topic rather than height or size or color or author. By his topics- the cleaner must have decided how he divided them.

But there could only be one cleaner, since maids had learned long ago to not step foot in Murtagh's rooms.

Grabbing the platter, he strode towards the library, and saw the elf. She had her back to him, her red hair cascading over the armrest of his lumpy leather chair. A shirt, half mended, sat in her lap, a needle poised in one hand and the other against a book. He watched her chest rise and fall evenly through her sleep, her green eyes half-open and-

Weeping.

She cried in her dreams, her face tear-streaked and the picture of unsettled fear.

Murtagh could not explain the foreign strain in his chest, the desire to make the miserable elf happy. He shoved it aside and locked it up, not knowing why in particular. Thorn scorned the motion, but accepted his Rider's decision.

Heading to the shelves- straight and tidy like everything else- Murtagh stepped on one of the creaky floorboards, hearing a crash rather than the squeak he expected. He whirled around to find the elf on the floor, eyes wide and wild, staring at him from a pile on the floor. She scuttled behind the chair as soon as his brown eyes met hers, and though he could not see her, he could hear her taking deep breaths. Book in hand, he walked around the chair, his curiosity overwhelming him.

Her eyes darted to his face and back to the floor, a red flush creeping into her cheeks as she ducked away, picking up the needle and shirt once more.

Murtagh could not understand the strange girl on his library floor, starting to turn towards the door, then reversing his course to look at her once more. She stared at the floor, unable to meet his gaze.

"Why did you heal me?"

He had not planned on asking her, but that act of kindness had been the first in so long. Why bother wasting energy on helping him, when he could have done it later?

Her green eyes glanced up, then back at the needle.

"Answer me." The command echoed in the clean room, louder than Murtagh had intended. She flinched, her knuckles turning white as she clutched the shirt.

"Because it was the right thing to do."

Murtagh's incredulous stare could not be hidden- the utter absurdity of that reason caught him off-guard and unprepared. But he also realized the truth of her words- she spoke in the Ancient Language, her whisper barely audible.

"No one does anything simply because of its morality in Uru'baen." Murtagh scoffed, turning back to the bedroom. "It leads to weakness and death."

"Then why did you help me?" She whispered, stopping Murtagh in his tracks.

_Because you pitied her._ Thorn told him. _And because you're not evil._

Murtagh, on the other hand, didn't have an answer. Or rather, too many answers to even begin. His experience dominated the list, reminding him of the time when he too, had wanted anyone to help him.

"You've had a miserable life as it is. No need for you to die in agony."

She did not respond, beginning to sew, her nimble fingers blurring as the needle glinted in the morning light.

Murtagh leaned against the doorway, inspecting her. He had not noticed how small she was- he doubted she came to his shoulder. And frail- his shirt hung off of her like a potato sack, emphasizing her bony frame. His stare distracted her- she was nervous; he could tell by the way her needle picked up its pace, pricking her finger. She didn't stop even as the blood dripped to the floor.

One of them.

Murtagh turned and left the library, anger starting to well up in his chest. She was one of them- judging him because of the King.

"Thank you."

For a moment, he didn't register the whisper. Then the words formed in his head, two simple words he had not heard for such a long time.

"For what?"

"Healing me." She replied, glancing up, her cheeks crimson. "You healed me when I expected the opposite."

For the second- or was it third?- time, confusion met Murtagh's hard heart and made him stop, casting a quizzical eye to the elf. So innocent- though probably not as naïve as she appeared- Murtagh found himself comparing her to his mother.

"What's your name?" He asked.

She looked happy to answer; Murtagh had to remind her that she had just remembered it while he was gone. How Kidasku had gotten in the room at all was a question for another day.

"Halia." She replied, another pink flush coming to her cheeks as she smiled at the shirt in her clever hands. She had finished it. "Halia is my name."

Well? Well? Did you like it? Theories? Anyone at all?


	10. Chapter 10 Escape

You people BLOW MY FREAKING MIND AWAY! 7-SEVEN-VII of you asked for a quick update, or something along those lines, and IT MAKES ME SO HAPPY! To hear that I make you smile 'on crappy evenings' just... I don't know. My family wants me to stop writing and you people are my encouragement, and I love you. Really.

Astenbuad- This chapter, you learn where Eragon is. I'm holding Fat and Chunky's motives and superior for the end...

This is a shorter chapter, but I'll post again as soon as I can. Writing the Eragon scenes are harder for me than the Murtagh ones.

**Chapter 10:** **Escape... **

Time lacked meaning in that filthy prison, minutes passing into hours into days into weeks, crawling, yet speeding by, unnoticed by Eragon.

He was alone.

He was alone.

He was alone...

Or was he?

He could hear the moans of dying after another of Fat and Chunky's visits, but he could not help them; not the grizzled old man to his left; nor the little girl laying two tables to his right.

She couldn't have been ten; he wasn't sure. She whimpered and whispered to herself, some days walking in circles around her table, other times, curling up and sleeping there. Her left wrist, chained to the table, become red and sore as she struggled against the cold metal. But her wound, her punishment for whatever crime had landed her there, was starvation. Eragon had never seen her eat; but then again, he had never seen her face.

He thought- he could not be sure.

He didn't know anything anymore, facts becoming more and more blurred as 'time' passed. Clarity came during Fat and Chunky's painful visits, but slipped away as the light faded and the heavy door clanged shut. He thought they drugged him- he noticed an oily edge to the water- but didn't remember what that drug did.

He forgot until the day they forgot to give it to him.

Another torture session passed- Eragon writhing and struggling to not scream. Each time, Fat and Chunky grew more and more frustrated that they could not break through his mental barricade. Chunky decided to leave, Eragon thought, and as he huffed away, Fat sputtered something about fire.

Fire.

Eragon remembered what fire was- the consuming heat and loving light within dancing reds, oranges, and blues.

Blue.

Blue.

Fire.

Blue fire.

An itch grew in Eragon's mind, scratching him as he tried to make a connection. The bridge between those thoughts, broken, seemed impossible to cross, until one noteworthy memory appeared before his eyes.

Brisingr.

He remembered his blue, burning sword; his blue, fire-breathing dragon-

He recalled who he was-

"Brisingr!" Eragon shouted, mustering all of his energy to fuel the magic.

For once, the tables switched as Fat and Chunky caught on fire, the blue flames eating away their ornate robes and Chunky's hair. Screaming, they doused the fire and turned four evil eyes on Eragon. But the Blue Rider had slipped off the table, both from exhaustion and a burst of adrenaline, hiding behind the marble as he scrambled to remember another spell.

"Jierda. Say jierda." Came an adult voice, somewhere to his left.

"Jierda!" Eragon cried, lifting his torturers into the dark air. He could not sustain them for long, and they barely caught themselves from spattering on the cold floor.

"You didn't give him the drug!" Fat cried, releasing his anger on Chunky, sending him tumbling through the air.

"_You_ didn't give him the drug!" Chunky shrieked, infuriated and offended. He sent a brown explosion towards Fat, whose legs got caught in the blast.

The other prisoners were moaning again, begging from broken lips and souls for mercy, for freedom.

"Take my energy, Shurt'ugal."

"Help me, Argetlam!"

"The door's that way." Said an adult voice, not two steps to his left.

Eragon jumped at the words, not noticing the other prisoner's soft approach. The person was tiny, possibly because they were crouched in the shadow, but confident.

"That way. I'll distract them, if you can break my chains."

Eragon did as the prisoner instructed, unlocking the chains and easing them onto the floor.

"Go forward, but don't trip on any bones or anything. The door is locked by magic. The password is 'Tor chirchu bin allesthe frinusthe.' You have no reason to doubt yourself, Eragon. You have the strength- your wounds are not horrible enough to stop you. Take some energy from the others. Think of Saphira; think of those you must avenge! The promises you must fulfill! You are strong enough, Argetlam. You must do this."

The small adult took a deep breath, then stood and skipped the opposite direction of the door. Wild from his returned memory and renewed energy- of blue sky, of his beautiful Saphira, of Arya- Arya smiling at him!- Eragon crawled from table to table, trying to get to the door unnoticed. But the other prisoners heard him scrape by, heard his hisses as the pain jolted up his body and down again.

"Please, Argetlam!"

"Will you leave us to die here, Silver Hand?"

Guilt came hard and fast- guilt, knowing that those people had as much a right to live as he did, knowing that they had no hope.

"You must go, Shurtugal. We should die- all of us here deserve death. Go- you are the Varden's hope! Go!" One whispered. "You must go... do not let us die in vain..."

"I promise." Eragon croaked, confused but fully knowing that he had to escape- he had to leave-

A violet explosion shook the floor, rattling the prisoner's chains and throwing the dark door open. The fighting magicians cursed, startled out of their argument, and set off to find the source, hissing and threatening each other as they went.

Eragon took the opportunity to both take some energy and launch his escape, laying a hand on the floor and taking what the marble had- it was a surprising amount. Running, he slipped out the door and into a black hallway. Left- something nudged him to take the left, and as he stumbled up the dark hallway, he heard another rumbling explosion.

The smell of decaying flesh and waste burned Eragon's nostrils like smoke, making his eyes water and triggering his stomach to rebel. Swallowing down the bile, he continued his upward climb, hoping to find Brisingr and Aren. And Saphira- especially Saphira.

A roar told him that the magicians had noticed his escape, he thought. It was hard to tell, since the roar mingled with the sounds of explosions and crumbling stone. Another blast rocked the floor, sending Eragon sprawling in the dark. His hand touched something slimy- something disgusting and smelling horrible.

"Garjzla." Eragon began, summoning light.

The itch began in his mind once more, trying to find a memory he could not remember. He had seen this dark place before- he had been there before, but he didn't know when or why or how or-

He did.

A stone dropped into his stomach as he realized what he was touching, what he smelling, where he was-

Helgrind.

There was no other option. The purple, sticky substance left no room for wonder. He had spilled that blood- he had cut that Ra'zac- and he had returned.

He knew where he was, at least.

But where was Saphira?

Her mind was not within reach; his head still felt empty, though not as lonely as before. His new found memory seemed like an old friend to comfort him; he hoped it would stay.

The light sent him higher and higher, running on winged feet up the dark, dank, musty corridor, weariness ignored due to the adrenaline which kept his speed and sustained the light. He charged past the rows of cells- there was Katrina's, with the door still beaten down- and continued up the tunnel he had run so seemingly long ago.

Another rattling explosion rocked the mountain, but Eragon managed to stay on his feet. Wobbling, he realized a dilemma that could not be avoided.

A fork in the tunnel.

Last time, he had used Katrina and Saphira's minds to guide him.

Now, he had no one.

He was lost in Helgrind.

So now you know where Eragon is... what about Saphira? Theories? Who is the little adult helping Eragon? Do Fat and Chunky have a superior? If so, who is he/she? Just a few questions to get you started... please review! :D


	11. Chapter 11 Escape Within Sight

Hello to all my new subscribers! Kyranos, BikerChik, and Voldanita, the newest members of the crew. Write a review, so I can *kindof* meet you!

To SJade- Hi. Um... I really don't know what to make of your review. You said: "Its very well written, except maybe for a few passages that are bit confusing, and it actually makes sense"... Um...? Explain please? And then you asked if Halia was a joke. Well. No, she's not. None of my characters will ever be jokes. Please sign in or get an account so I can PM you and talk to you more, like about how you said "Murtagh is so falling for her." I need to know how you think Murtagh is falling for her. What made you think that he was?

And to everyone else who reviewed: THANK YOU! I love reading your theories; as soon as I post anything my family can't pull me away from the computer because I'm just on edge about reviews!

**Chapter 11: Escape Within Sight**

Stumbling forward, Eragon grasped the wall to stop his upward tumble. His speed in the dark- the light was flickering from his weariness- held danger, but adrenaline drove him onward.

"The light ahead! Get him!" One of the magicians cried, his fury echoing on the walls.

Eragon put out his sputtering light and slid against the wall, pressing his back against it and hoping they would not notice him. He took some more energy from the stone- there wasn't much- to support an invisibility spell.

They charged past him, their groping eyes failing to notice him.

As soon as they were out of sight Eragon slid down, taking deep, quiet breaths. He was so tired... just so exhausted...

Saphira.

The thought of her jarred him from his rest and self-pity. What to do? Those cursed magicians were ahead of him now, so-

They could lead him out.

Eragon smiled for the first time in too long, realizing what Fat and Chunky had done. Creeping out of his spot, but retaining his invisibility, he slunk up the hallway and found the two, with several minions, arguing at a three-way fork. Lost- Eragon muttered a curse under his breath. They lost the way.

Chunky, certain he was right, pulled a map out of his cloak and unrolled it for all to see. Eragon planned to snitch it at the first opportunity.

"We go left, I tell you! See- see right here. Left will lead us up to the entryway, and since the Shadeslayer is lost, we can catch him there, before he can leave the mountain."

"But what if he isn't lost?" Fat hissed. "He's been here before when he killed the Ra'zac!"

"He's mindless at this point. No memory whatsoever- or have you forgotten the potion? Wipes the mind of reason? That one? You made it!"

"We don't know if it is totally sucessful!"

"Well then you better hope, because if we lose him, I'm turning you in."

"I've been nothing but your friend, and you dare threat turning me in to the King? What about all the other prisoners you've caught and taken here rather than Uru'Baen? Hmm? Do you think he'd forgive you for that?"

"You're the one who tortures them! I don't even scratch them!"

"Not externally, of course. Your potions kill them!"

"It hasn't killed the Shadeslayer."

"And if it does I'll kill you." Chunky spat.

"You wouldn't dare." Fat heaved.

"Do you need proof?"

They needed no more encouragement. Push came to shove, which escalated into a full-blown magical duel. Helpless, the other soldiers flattened themselves against a wall as their leaders circled each other, hissing like snakes preparing to strike. A blasting shock from one rebounded on the others shield, and the blast broke through the far wall as the magician- Fat, Eragon thought- dove to the side.

Watching from the entryway, Eragon's attention was not on the fighters, but on the map on the far side of the room. Slinking past the magicians along the opposite wall, across from the frozen soldiers, adrenaline roaring in his ears as he feared capture.

Arya. Saphira. Roran. Katrina, and the baby.

The Varden, elves, urgals, dwarves, and dragons.

He couldn't let them down.

For a moment he thought of Murtagh- he couldn't let his own brother down. But Murtagh was the traitor, not Eragon. Thorn, at least, did not deserve his undue punishment.

He couldn't let them down.

Those who had died- Selena, Garrow, Brom, Ajihad, Hrothgar- he couldn't let their deaths be in vain.

He had to escape.

Throwing caution out the preverbial window in his courage, and renewed vigor, Eragon sprinted across the room and caught up the map, charging up the hallway as loose stones scattered everywhere.

"What is that?" One of the soldiers cried, noticing the small avalanche, though it could have gone unnoticed in the magician's storm.

"Sirs, is that the Shadeslayer?" Another asked, his words falling on ears of stone.

"They probably caused it." The third argued. "I'd be surprised if all was still."

"But that's not natural, and I want the reward of catching him. Come, friends! If that is him, by some devilry, he will not pass me unnoticed!"

"But what if its not him, and he comes this way? Then we lose the reward!"

"Not totally- we still have helped those magicians. Come! Follow me!"

Eragon poured on all the speed he had, flying up the dark, winding tunnel. The thud of the soldier's boots echoed on the floor, and abandoning reason, Eragon charged up the darker, more putrid smelling of a fork to hide. Pulling out the map, Eragon dared to peel it open and plan his exit.

It was perfect, everything labeled to a minute detail, even including the conditions of the tunnels themselves. There! The armory was down the hallway he had come and to the right, down another then left, then straight, then up a flight of stairs. Helgrind embodied more than a labyrinth- it was a death trap. Craning to hear the soldiers, Eragon tip-toed back to the fork, looking both ways and daring to extend his mind to find them. They marched not thirty feet ahead of him, up the same hallway he had to use. Another rocking explosion sent him to the ground, cursing coming from three directions.

"It's no use, we'll never be able to find him in here without those magicians. We may as well go back."

"He'll be wanting his sword- the armory is somewhere in this direction."

"Somewhere. Like you'll be able to find it- this place is a maze. Come on, let's go back."

"No! We must find him!"

"We've gotta stay with those magicians, unless you want to rot here, lost in his god-forsaken place."

"I know where I'm going." The second hissed.

"No you don't. I've been here longer than you have."

"So what? I'm the leader here, and I say we're moving on."

"Whoever said that you were the leader? By rights that position is mine!" The first cried, Eragon hearing the sound of a sword being drawn.

"Really?" The second challenged, pulling out his blade.

"Don't fight- we'll never get anywhere if you fight. Come on, we'll flip a coin to decide what to do. Don't fight, dammit! If you two killed each other, what the magicians do to me? Here's a coin. Heads or tails?" A third intervened.

His words were in vain, for the clash of arms met Eragon's ears not a moment later, followed by the grunts of fighting men. The third screamed for them to stop, but ignoring him, the other two continued to duel.

It was the magicians all over again. Eragon, invisible, scurried around them towards the armory, obeying the map. The third soldiers did not notice his passage.

Barreling around a corner, Eragon skid to a halt upon the sight of the armory door. Solid oak, engraved with iron and steel, barred his way. The door lacked a handle, and a rock landed in Eragon's stomach as he realized that he would have to guess the password.

Two minutes passed.

Eight.

Eleven.

The words tumbled from Eragon's lips as he rushed to get through, the blasts in the background becoming fewer and fewer. They had to be after him, he had no more time, he had to escape-

Adrenaline told him to beat the door down, and aiming at the hinges, he blew the gate away, sending it crashing on the floor of the room before him.

The armory extended hundreds of feet in each direction, stones glittering in the floor and ceiling, casting their steady light in each direction. Tables laden with knives and darts took up most of the floor space, while swords, shields, pikes, bows, and spears hung on the walls. Armor on models stood at intervals around the room, empty helmets watching him from the walls.

Where was Brisingr? Where was Aren?

Charging through the room and knocking over various stands as he went, Eragon ran a lap, scanning the room for a glimmer of blue. He found nothing. Wild with anxiety and exhausted from the adrenaline, he summoned the sword and ring with magic.

He fell to his knees as the spell drained his energy, Brisingr and Aren breaking through a wall to obey their master's command. Aren, still imbued with energy, revived Eragon as he slipped it back on his finger, and tightening Brisingr around his hips, he stood and gave the room one final glance, looking for anything that could help the Varden.

He did not see the glimmer of green, hiding in the dark vault where Brisingr and Aren had been stashed.

Taking a deep breath, he pulled a shield from the wall and turned, charging down the tunnel to leave his god-forsaken prison.

Saphira.

He had to find her.

Well...? Everyone has an opinion, so tell me!


	12. Chapter 12 The Dragonhold

I am SO SORRY for the ridiculous wait- so sorry you can't believe it. I didn't have internet access, but I've found a remedy. Temporarily. But I have kept writing, if that helps... I'm up to Chapter 18 now. :) I'll have an updating party sometime and publish the next five in one heap. :D

This is an uber-important chapter, too. Enjoy!

**Chapter 12: The Dragonhold**

The days crawled by, the torture of life in Uru'baen. Endless hours passed in tedious strategy, filled by annoying nobles with the mental equivalent of flies. Murtagh lacked the patience to stand their company for more than a few hours, listening to their pathetic pleas and offers in silence.

Silence was his only weapon when it came to them. He could glare and he could draw Zar'roc, or summon Thorn, but nothing frightened them more than an absolute lack of action. And so he dreamed they didn't exist, that they were nothing more than flies buzzing around his head. Ignoring them, he planned his revenge.

Galbatorix, eternally entertained by court scandals and its inner workings, disapproved of Murtagh's method of fighting. Morzan had stirred the pot at every opportunity; Murtagh watched as the liquid settled.

Drenched with sweat and exhausted, Murtagh lumbered to his rooms after another four hours of training. He fought twenty armed men and five magicians with nothing but Zar'roc and one eldunari and still won. Galbatorix was running out of challenges for him. Anyway, opening the door of his rooms, Murtagh heard a sound that had vanished from his life the day he understood his heritage.

Laughter.

Nobles laughed, but their guffaws were either of drunkenness or mock politeness. The King laughed, but that always heralded some unfortunate souls demise. The Varden- Murtagh gritted his teeth at the memory- had laughed, but that was only to mock him.

This laughter sent a chill down his spine. It sang like the chatter of a brook, floating across the room to his ears. Awakening sweet memories of better times, Murtagh leaned against the wall and slid to the floor, absorbing the beautiful sound. He could not describe it- filled with mirth, it paused as the voice gasped for air.

"No- no." She laughed, her voice rippling through Murtagh's mind. "Your hand- your hand goes- no, you must-" The sentence collapsed in a heap of giggles as Murtagh realized that someone else besides he and Halia was in the room.

Rising, he crossed the room in two strides, leaning against the library doorway at the odd sight before him.

Halia was curled on the floor, clutching her sides as tears of laughter ran down her face. Kidasku, on the other hand, wore a smile of amusement, twisted into a difficult form of the Rigmar. His paw-like hand was on the ground as his head rested against the floor, his ears flattened as he watched her upside-down. One leg pointed in the air as the other supported him, revealing his mistake. That leg was supposed to be parallel to the floor, like his other hand should have been balancing him.

Mastering herself but not seeing Murtagh, Halia pushed herself to her hands and knees and reached out, taking the hand at fault and putting it in its rightful place. Pulling the wayward leg off the floor, she swiveled it to the correct position. As soon as she let go, the limbs snapped back to their former positions and collided with other appendages, heaping the werecat on the floor. Halia burst into laughter once more as the little boy muttered something about his bruised tail.

A ghost of a smile crossed Murtagh's face and vanished as soon as Halia glanced up at him.

She looked so happy; her green eyes shone with merriment and a pink hue graced her cheeks. Health had returned to her system- her skin lacked its yellow tinge and some muscle seemed to have returned to her skeleton. No one could deny her beauty; Murtagh was shocked that the King had given her up.

As soon as her green eyes met his brown ones, the smile and amusement melted off of her fair face. Fear replaced the happiness, a dark shadow sweeping over her eyes.

"Hello, Murtagh." Kidasku began, ignoring Halia's strained, fearful form. "I trust your training has gone well? How many are you up to now?"

"Twenty and five."

"He means twenty soldiers and five magicians, Halia." Kidasku explained. Murtagh doubted Halia cared at all. "How many bruises?"

Murtagh shrugged.

"How many wards?"

"Two."

"How long did they last?"

"Ten minutes."

"How many broken bones?"

Murtagh rolled his eyes as he walked towards the shelves, pulling a history of the Riders from its spot. "I don't keep track."

"Twenty then, one for each soldier?"

Murtagh grunted, knowing that the number was higher than that.

"How illiterate can someone be?" Kisasku cried, throwing his paws in the air. "I try to be polite for once and you hardly reply. Then again, you're not known for being the most gracious person either."

_How true._ Thorn joked.

"Am I asking the wrong questions? Halia, help me. What should I ask him?"

Murtagh's ear twitched- the elf did not answer.

"How was your day, Lord Murtagh?" He continued.

"What are you getting at, Kidasku?" Murtagh asked, turning to face the werecat. "What plot are you heading? What game are you playing?"

"Finally, a decent reply!" The boy replied, his fangs showing as he smiled. "I am not doing anything besides being polite."

"Your motive."

"That's a fragment, Murtagh. Alright, fine! I'll answer your attempt at a question." He paused, distrust playing in his eyes. "I want to leave Uru'baen, and you are going to take me. We might as well get to know each other now."

Murtagh turned his back to the pair on the floor, his silence denying the cat his demand.

"You are the only way I can get anywhere quickly, since you already travel so much. Just the next time you have to inspect the troops or go and fight whoever, take me with you. I'm not a burden, and we are in the same plight here. Have some pity on one who wants to be free of the King's grip."

"You have chosen to stay here." Murtagh hissed. "If you want to leave, leave. I will not tempt the King to torture me again, as he would if I helped you."

"The King could care less about me. He doesn't even invite me to his Galas anymore." The annoyed werecat replied.

"I'd rather have that than have to sit at his right hand." Murtagh spat. Kidasku hissed, his fangs sliding over his lips and glinting in the light.

"I felt the responsibility to stay when all my other brethren left- I would watch Uru'baen. I have done my duty, and now it is high time I left."

"Your duty will remain as long as that bastard sits on the throne." Murtagh growled. "Until then, Uru'baen is still closed off to all but you and I. You may as well use your life here for good and spy. That is the only instance when I would possibly ferry you places."

"But I know so many useless things! How could I possibly sort through them? I know next to nothing when it comes to the King's plans- he wants you to go down to Leona Lake next week, by the way- and I have never been involved in the war."

Murtagh glared at him, frustrated and annoyed. "You are a werecat. You can hear more things than any crude magician spy; you can move faster and more efficiently than any human thief. You are capable of so much more than anyone else, and you use the excuse that you know nothing? The King can't keep you out of his Galas; he can't make you leave the throne room when there's a war council. You have so many opportunities available, but you let them go to waste! You are the embodiment of laziness, Kidasku! What would your precious Maud say?"

Halia glanced up from her contemplation of the floor, giving the werecat a strange look.

Kidasku, on the other hand, was flabbergasted. "A speech." He muttered. "The Son of Morzan gave a speech. That is true answer. Now, as to the content of said speech... I must think on it. After all, I have a hundred years worth of information to sort through. But you are being honest when you said that you would take me places if I spied against the King?"

Murtagh jerked a nod.

_He would definitely be an interesting addition to my saddle._ Thorn said. _I'll take him wherever as long as he doesn't squirm. _

_He's risking both of us by telling me. Who knows what the King will do when he finds out._

_If he finds out. _Thorn reminded him. _Now can I meet Halia? You should bring Kidasku. He hasn't visited me in a while, and Shruikan is in a sour mood. I think he'll be roaring again soon._

_And you're saying we could make anything better?_

_For me. Who knows, maybe that cat can lighten Shruikan's mood. Or meeting Halia. _

"Come." Murtagh ordered, putting the book back and taking a cloak from a peg.

"Both of us?" Kidasku asked.

"Thorn wants to see you. Both of you." Murtagh explained, tossing the elf another cape. She caught it, fear written across her face. He assumed it was fear of him rather than the cloth.

"Don't worry Halia." Kidasku encouraged her. "Thorn won't eat you or anything." Conflicting emotions spread across Halia's face, but disappeared underneath a firm mask. "And what of Shruikan?"

"He's in a poor mood."

"Well then, I'm so much more eager to go. Come, lady elf, lets go meet the dragons. They are odd company."

Murtagh more thought they were a strange combination; a werecat, elf, and a Rider. The maids gave them sideways glances as the nobles gaped, seeing the light dancing on the few stray tresses of Halia's hair. Her steps were silent- Murtagh's ears failed to hear them- and she walked with such grace that even the gazelles would be jealous. But fear haunted her every move; she followed with bowed head and a skittishness that none could deny. Kidasku, on the other hand, chattered the whole way down to the dragon hold, only to Murtagh, of course. He ignored all the other passer-byers.

The door to the dragon hold, made of stone and boasting a dozen locks, depicted the deaths of Vrael and his dragon. Galbatorix painted the mural himself, explaining why he looked like an angel and Vrael like a demon from the darkest depths of hell. Shruikan, perched in the cloudy sky, could not be seen by the untrained eye.

"He can't be." Someone whispered behind him.

Halia had spoken those words to no one in particular, Murtagh knew that well, but the fact that she had said them at all surprised him. Who was he? 'He' wasn't what?

The stench of smoke and sulfur drifted from the dark chamber, as the door creaked open, Murtagh pulling the covers off of the glowing stones as they walked towards the opening. The light accented the inky darkness and crude finish on the dragon hold- Galbatorix had given up trying to maintain it after Shruikan wiped away days worth of work with one swipe of his tail.

Thorn crashed through the room, skidding to a halt before them. Murtagh shielded them from the spray of rocks and dirt as the dragon sneezed, flames licking the edges of the magic. Taking a step forward, Murtagh itched Thorn under his jaw, risking a glance at the object of Thorn's attention.

Halia trembled under the dragon's red gaze, though his curiosity overwhelmed Murtagh's mind. He leaned his face to her level- his head was as large as her entire frame, plus a few inches- and inspected her. Snorting, he enveloped her in smoke.

_No need to fear me, elf. I don't want to hurt you. Shruikan won't either; I won't let him. Thorn_ crowed, his charming but rough voice open to all. He put one ruby eye not a foot from her face. _Are you afraid of me? _

The smallest of smiles crossed her timid face as Halia tried to smile; she raised an elegant hand but did not touch him. "I don't think so." She whispered.

He leaned forward into her hand, rubbing his scales against her soft touch.

_Are you small for an elf?_ He asked as Murtagh watched, surprised by the smile that crept across Halia's lovely face.

Her eyes sparkled at the question. "I suppose I am, but no one sees themselves truly. Do you think I am small?"

_Yes. You are very small._ Thorn replied. _But all two leggeds are small in my eyes_.

"And some are so small he doesn't notice them." Kidasku remarked, referring to an incident where Thorn nearly stepped on the werecat.

I said I was sorry! Thorn huffed, sending another cloud of smoke around Halia. Oops. Sorry.

"No harm done, sir." Halia began, stepping away from the cloud. "If I may ask, how old are you?"

_Don't call me sir. That's... ridiculous. I'm only seven months. _

"My apologies... Thorn."

"Of course, the elf is all apologetic." Kidasku began. "Let's hope the King learns your manners sometime."

Murtagh rolled his eyes at the vain hope.

Do you want to see the city? Thorn asked, nudging Halia's hand. Come to the door. You can see a long way.

Following, Murtagh noticed Halia's attention to the shadows- what was she looking for? She kept close to Thorn, seeming to trust his promise to not let anything hurt her. Kidasku held her hand, which Murtagh found amusing, and chattered the whole slow way to the light. The dragons had rutted up the floor and left piles of stones everywhere, nothing more than anthills to them, and in places had shaved off parts of the slate.

Halia put a hand over her eyes as they progressed, the light becoming steadily brighter. Kidasku tugged on her hand, but Murtagh could tell by her bowed head and tight muscles that the light pained her.

"Stop Kidasku." Murtagh ordered. "You're hurting her."

What is wrong? Thorn asked, swiveling his serpentine neck around to see her.

"When was the last time you were outside?" Murtagh asked, half dreading the answer.

"I don't know." She whispered. "I don't remember."

"Well, let the werecat help. I've helped you remember everything else... let's see. When was the last time you ran?"

Murtagh couldn't see her face, but he knew by her absolute stillness that concentration was all that mattered to her.

"I don't know."

"Alright then, when was the last time you... had a knife in your hand?"

"How can that help?" Murtagh demanded.

"Let her concentrate!" The werecat hissed.

"When I was captured." She answered. "The day they... the day they didn't give me the drugs. I almost escaped- I ran through there but got lost-"

"And did you see any light?"

She tapped her foot as a few moments passed. "No. I couldn't find the exit."

"So before then. How long had you been tortured before then?"

She paced in a circle, her eyes screwed shut. "I- I don't know! It's almost there, I can almost- it keeps escaping me! I know it, I swear- I just-"

"You'll remember soon, Halia. Don't have a hissy fit over it. Now... can you remember the day you were captured?"

"Kidasku-"

"Shhh!" The werecat hissed, glaring at Murtagh. "Let her think. She can remember."

Sitting down, she put her head in her hands, her hair tumbling around her shoulders. Thorn stooped down and nudged his massive head against her shoulder, comforting her.

_You'll remember sometime, Halia_. He encouraged her. _Your memory will return._ _Shruikan's came back eventually, and that was without anyone's help. _

_Thorn, you said Shruikan was already in a foul mood. Don't push it by reminding him of that._ Murtagh began, watching the black corner where he guessed Shruikan rested.

_I forgot, and he can't do anything to me while you're here. The King would hurt him if he hurt you. _

_And Shruikan would hurt you if he couldn't hurt me. My wards wouldn't last long if he really attacked you. _

_The King would get mad at him for that too. He doesn't want you exhausted- Kisaaku said he wants us to go to Leona Lake soon. _

A rumble shook the foundation of the hold as a dark mass rose from the corner, distracting the party of four. Kidasku was the only one who moved, stepping forward rather than away. Thorn nudged Halia to her feet as Shruikan's hulk began to come towards them, her face a frozen mask of terror and... pain.

The dragon halted, still cloaked in shadow, studying them. Murtagh knew the motions. If Shruikan didn't approve of their presence, he'd try to torch them. Otherwise, he'd sit down once more and stare. Murtagh readied his fire wards, waiting on the balls of his feet for the blast to come-

Shruikan stepped forward once more, crossing half the room in one jerky movement.

"Hello, Shruikan." Kisasku began cheerfully. "How are you today?"

He did not receive a reply.

Shruikan's swirling, black eyes scanned Halia, though Murtagh could not tell what emotion resulted of the study. Then the orbs fell on Murtagh, then Thorn, then Kidasku. Then back on Halia.

_You smell of pine and blood, two legged._ He began, his typical rough voice replaced by one filled with pain and regret. He leaned his head down, his fangs protruding from his maw as he studied her more closely. _You smell of death- you were tortured. _His head inched forward, his massive eyes, the size of her head, not a span from her.

_You look like Kithrin. _

A century of bitter love welled up in Shruikan's eyes, pushing away his hatred of the King as memories of his hatchlinghood drifted across his eyes. Murtagh had never seen him so emotional before; Shruikan rarely spoke of Kithrin, and to compare him to a captured elf-

_Did you know him? Any of his family? _

"I am his sister." Halia whispered, her chest heaving as she stared back at Shruikan.

(Kithrin was Shruikan's original Rider- I mentioned that soo long ago I wanted to clarify)


	13. Chapter 13 Her Past

I'm back! :D You guys are the best! I loved the reviews, and they weren't just 'good job' or 'great chap'- for the most part they were honest to goodness, quality reviews. THANK YOU! The enthusiasm was practically tangible- especially about the Halia/Kithrin/Shruikan relationship. :D And some of you were theorizing where Saphira is, etc, and it's GREAT. You people are AWESOME. BEST READERS EVER. Oh! And I started a blog on writing- I think some of you would like it. :) Here's the link: .

AlphieBet- You'll find out soon enough! Two chapters from now, I think. :)

I don't think this chapter is quite as epic as the last one, but it's still really important. Enjoy!

**Chapter 13: Her Past**

Shruikan leaned his head even closer, his snout nudging her arm._ You look like him- the same face. His hair was not as light as yours, nor his stature as small. But the same face all the same. Has anything changed in the family, since I saw them? A hundred and one years, two-hundred and thirty seven days past. I wish to see them again. _

"They're dead." She replied, her eyes falling to the floor as tears welled up in her eyes. "Everyone is dead. I am the last."

The way she said 'the last' gave Murtagh the impression that she doubted she would ever be free. Just like him.

_How can this be? There were sixteen last I knew_.

"Ten died at the last battle of- of the King's conquest, and two later from their injuries. Two more of grief-" Her voice cracked as the words came- "And two as Riders themselves."

_And Taelgon and Aelwhen?_

Kithrin- and Halia's- parents, Murtagh assumed.

"Of grief." She repeated, raising her wet face to meet Shruikan's heavy gaze.

_When?_

"Forty years ago, the First of Fall Rise."

_Both together?_

"It was how they wished it."

Murtagh watched as Shruikan, normally so calloused and burning with rage, froze from shock and grief. The old dragon lifted his head and turned to the doorway, then back at Halia.

_And you are the last._

She nodded.

Dragging his tail, Shruikan hauled himself to the door, blocking most of the light with his hulking frame. He laid his head on his massive paws and uttered a whimper of grief, the first of such sounds Murtagh had ever heard from him. Thorn, however, knew the sound from his hatching. While Murtagh laid blacked out on the floor from the shock of the gedwey ignasia, Shruikan moaned the ruin of the dragons with the moans he had not heard since.

Halia blinked furiously as her eyes followed Shruikan, squinting as she wiped away the tears on her face. Kidasku followed the great dragon, sitting beside him like old friends.

_Are your eyes all right, Halia? _Thorn asked. _They are all red._

"I'm... improved." She mumbled, and trudged up the slope to Shruikan, leaving Murtagh and Thorn behind.

_Improved? What kind of an answer is that?_

_Ancient Language, Thorn. She's not fine, but she can't say that she's healthy or good either._ Murtagh explained.

Thorn did not reply, but clambered up the slope to sit next to Kidasku.

Murtagh scanned the odd assembly from his vantage point below. Two dragons, a werecat, and an elf with only half a mind. Thorn swiveled his head around, tipping it back in the universal gesture for Murtagh to join them.

_Shruikan has asked her to tell him of her past. This might be interesting._

_If she can remember any of it._ Murtagh pointed out as he strode up to Thorn's side.

"... I remember parts." Halia was saying, as if to answer Murtagh's grim comment. "Fragments and portions here and there, and I don't really know what order they go in."

_It will work itself out, in the end_. Shruikan told her. _The bastard wiped my memory when he caught me, but it has all returned with time. I knew everything before Kialandi and Forona were dead._

"Are there people that appear regularly? Then you can put memories in order based on appearance." Kidasku prompted.

"Appearance does not change enough for my kind for that to be of much help."

"But are there people?"

"Yes."

"Anyone who appears often?"

"Yes."

"Describe them."

"He... he has blond hair. Tall. Fluid. Always... always armed, even when he was younger... I think."

_He_. Thorn noted, casting Murtagh a sideways glance, which the latter ignored.

"I don't remember his name... and I don't know why I feel so... angry whenever I think of him. Even now- I don't even know his name and yet I want to hurt him. Make him suffer for _something_..."

"But you don't remember what." Kidasku finished. Halia nodded, a dark shadow across her face.

_Who captured you?_ Shruikan asked.

"The two magicians- I don't know their names. Both fat, arrogant, and bloodthirsty."

_Their names, Murtagh._

"Karth and Furdor."

_And how, Halia? Were you trapped?_

"In a tree." She responded. "I was on patrol with someone, and they... he." She fell silent mid-thought, her brows forming a tight 'v' as she concentrated. "He left." Her breathing quickened as her eyes darted across the floor, like she was trying to see flashing images on her eyes; her fists tightened and loosened, tight loose, tight loose, as a red flush crept into her cheeks.

"He left." Her voice dripped with fury, with resentment as her green eyes burned with hatred. "He abandoned me, not twenty minutes before those magicians came. I remember it as clearly as I see you now. He ran when we noted the approach of the magicians, and I stayed. Ten soldiers, two magicians. The soldiers were terrified, as if they expected ghosts to attack them. I tried calling for aid, but no one was near enough... and they found me. They were looking for me, and I don't know why. They wanted to capture me; not kill. That was their only disadvantage. I killed the soldiers... but I could not overpower the magicians without dying."

"So you climbed a tree." Kidasku muttered.

"I had no other options, because they set this... shell over me, so when I tried to run, I ran into an invisible wall. So I climbed the nearest tree and sat there for two days, always calling for help, never receiving an answer. The evening of the second day, I did not have enough energy to resist them anymore, and- I tried committing suicide.

"They responded by poising me- a gas filled the shell and I couldn't breathe, couldn't think... and I woke up in a cave, chained to a table."

_They tortured you_. Shruikan hissed, his typical wrath returning to his tone and eyes.

Her eyes dropped to the floor as she wrapped her arms around herself and began rocking, swaying forwards and back. Her red hair tumbled around her shoulder like a bloody waterfall, and Murtagh could just imagine the stripes on her back that he had healed doing the same, bleeding all over some cold, stone table in a god-forsaken hole...

The chains cut into his wrists, blood trickling down his bruised and broken arms held above his head. His matted hair hung in front of his eyes, but he didn't have the strength to blow it away; he didn't have the strength even to look up at the magicians approaching him. The bruises, sores, and wounds criss-crossing his tall, starving frame started throbbing as the echoing steps of doom came towards him.

"Well, well, well, what do we have here?" One of the Twins began, his lips curled in a wicked sneer. "Ready for another big day, Murtagh?"

"Only if it means killing you." Murtagh hissed, his fury fueling his strength.

Both magicians laughed, the deathly sound echoing in the black dungeon of the castle. "You must be mistaken, Murtagh, for you are in no position to kill either of us- rather, we would be quite pleased to kill you."

"More than pleased. If it weren't for the fact that the King still has an interest in you, you would already be a heap of rotting bones." The second reminded him.

"No one really cares for you, Murtagh. No one has even tried to help you; you have no friends. You are alone, and none would lament your passing. There would be no one to so much as bury your decaying corpse."

"And would any do that for you?" Murtagh retorted.

Two pairs of steely eyes glared at him; Murtagh returned the loving gesture.

"Perhaps a punishment is in store for your insolence." The first began.

"May I have the first honor?" The second began, summoning a handful of white flame.

"Be my guest." The other accepted, stepping back as the first tossed the fire from one hand to the other.

"Ready to have some fun, Lord Murtagh?"

Murtagh would not please them with his screams.

_Murtagh._ Shruikan was saying. _Have you been listening to a word I'm saying?_

_"_Not exactly_."_ Murtagh answered, "My mind was wandering."

_Obviously. _The dragon huffed, a puff of smoke drifting out into the cloudy gray sky. _Kidasku was saying that you never lost your memory after your stint in the dungeons. Is that true?_

"Yes."

"Did you expect me to just wipe his memory, Shruikan?" A crisp, laughing tone reached their ears as Murtagh flinched from the presence. "I had no reason too."

_As it would not have benefited your generous, and utterly selfless plans._ Shruikan hissed sarcastically as his hulk stepped in front of Halia, blocking her from the King's sight.

"How funny, Shruikan. There's no use hiding the elf from me- I already know she's here. Tell me, Murtagh- did you hear of my next orders?"

"Yes, my Lord."

"You will leave two days from now. I have assembled another war council for tomorrow, so your trip will be as productive as possible. And there will also be a dinner tomorrow night- best dress, Murtagh. No need to insult all of my idiot nobles."

_No need to flatter them either._ Shruikan remarked, flicking his tail. The King sent him an annoyed glare.

"I trust your training went well today?"

"He's quite pathetic, Galby." Kidasku replied, using his old nickname that undoubtedly earned him the King's cold shoulder. "The image of uselessness. As you would say, the opposite of his father."

"Murtagh, is that the non-nonsensical cat I saw running around in my throne room earlier?" The King began, ignoring Kidasku. The werecat's eyes blazed.

"Yes, my Lord."

"Get rid of it sometime, Murtagh. He's useless; you are not." The King finished, turning back towards the door as Thorn let out a sigh of relief.

"Oh, and my best friend's son?" The King continued, spinning around in a flap of robes to pin Murtagh under his iron gaze. "I want to see that elf of yours at one of my Galas soon. My annual Gala, lets say."

And the King was gone.

"Well, that's interesting." Kidasku began, turning to face Halia.

_That's an understatement._ Thorn agreed.

_That can't possibly be good in any way, shape, or form_. Shruikan bemoaned, nudging Halia's side with his snout as she sat paralyzed, frozen with shock.

Murtagh couldn't help but agree.


	14. Chapter 14 The Light of Night

Has everyone heard the wonderful, amazing, exciting, spectacular, incredible, awesome news? That the 4TH BOOK IS COMING OUT NOVEMBER 8TH? :D :D :D :D :D It's titled Inheritance (I think that's kind of lame, but oh well,) and it's going to make my life so much better. Maybe I'll be done with this fanfic by then. :) If you don't believe me, go to the Random House site or Shur'turgal.

Anyway, here's the improved link to my writing blog: www. rzhungryverbivore. blogspot. com . Sorry about the mess up the first time.

On reviews! You people are AWESOME! Someone asked what the Gala was- I'll explain it more in a future chapter, but for now, all you need to know is that it's basically Galby's massive annual birthday party. And Murtagh hates it with a burning passion. :P And , you asked how Murtagh knew about Maud, and I assumed that Galby had taught him about Ellesmera and mentioned Maud. Plus, Kidasku can't keep his mouth shut...

Enjoy the switch back to Eragon! :D

**Chapter 14: The Light of Night**

Brisingr felt perfect in his hand- the embodiment of balance and precision. Eragon could have admired it forever; he could have sat there and just gaped at the blue reflections it cast and traced the flame etched into the metal.

He denied himself the pleasure, promising it as a reward once he was free and beyond the magician's reach. Rather, he kept it in hand as he inched down the putrid corridor, risking a candle-sized flame to read the map. He was at ground level, far, far below the area he had been before when rescuing Katrina. The rock was dotted by entrances, all hidden with magic and locked, but with Aren, Eragon was sure he could escape.

He would. Failure was no longer an option.

This deep, Helgrind was nothing more than a black pit with scattered carcasses. No one had been there in years, which was why Eragon chose that route. Fat and Chunky would not know where they were going, unless they had another map, and their clamor would alert Eragon of their approach. Avoiding another heap of bones- missing an arm- the Blue Rider crept through the darkness and smiled as giddy joy washed over him.

The map said that the end neared.

Running, Eragon pulled at the door, a pile of rocks and a handful of roots covering the lowest entrance to Helgrind. He clawed away at the rubble and shoved the crude door aside, his hands opening a hole in the mountain. That hole grew, till he could fit his head through- his shoulders-

Scrambling, he tumbled out of Helgrind, Brisingr still in hand, and looked out to see an inky black sky. A million stars smiled at him from their heavenly abode, congratulating him on his escape. _Go._ The whispering wind told him. _Go, before they catch you again. Go, before the soldiers find you. Go, before you are found._

Eragon took a great gulp of air, drinking the sweet taste of freedom. He was free-

_Murtagh can only dream of this. _He thought, realizing the truth of the situation. _Murtagh cannot escape his prison. _

_ Saphira._

The thought of her, rather than Murtagh, led the Blue Rider to sheathe Brisingr and take a little more energy from Aren. It was just enough that he could run till morning- and beyond, hopefully. If anything happened to her-

Wild panic spurred him forward, driving him through the darkness. He was at Helgrind, and the Varden was at...

Where was the Varden? Had they won the battle of Belatona, even without him? Had they retreated to Feinster? Had they been attacked? Had there been any battles? Was anyone else he knew dead?

How long had he been gone?

Eragon found himself slowing, trying to sort through the avalanche of questions and worries growing in his mind. The snapping of a branch underfoot caught him off-guard; he lept up and dropped to the ground. He wasn't the only one to notice.

"What was that?" Came a gruff voice.

"This place is giving me the creeps- that wasn't anything. Let's go, before we disturb the ghosts."

"I suppose you're right- this place is strange. Unnatural."

"Then let's hurry up!"

Grumbling and shooting glances over their shoulders, the two Empire soldiers returned by the way they had came, going the opposite direction.

Scouts.

A stone dropped into Eragon's stomach. If he wasn't careful, he'd run into one of those scouting parties, and then he'd have to kill them. He shuddered at the thought. Scouts meant that a larger party was close...

Helgrind was by Leona Lake.

Leona Lake was by Dras-Leona.

Leona Lake was beyond Dras-Leona.

The Empire camp was by Feinster.

The Empire was attacking.

Silent as the Death he courted, Eragon darted through the scraggly forest around Helgrind, diving behind trees and into shrubbery at the slightest hint of company. But with each stride his cover vanished as the small wood thinned, spike-like stumps standing out of the ground. Eragon took what energy he could from the dying trees, renewing his confidence-

Until he saw the army.

The mass of red and black spread out before him like the horizon, fires flickering on the shore like the moonlight danced on the gentle waves of the lake. He could hear the drunken guffaws of the soldiers, the whinnying of horses, and the music of blades sharpening and sparring. The army never slept- never rested. Eragon wondered if the Painless Ones ever felt the need for sleep, but he pushed the thought aside.

He had to get out.

He may have been free, but he was not safe. Not yet.

Donning a spell of invisibility, Eragon crouched down in the scraggly shrubbery, scanning his surroundings. And then he ran. Bolting out of the forest, he charged across the rocky terrain, scrambling and leaping over rocks while attempting to be quiet. He could not be seen, but he most definitely could be heard; his greatest fear just that- that some lonely guard would notice the scattering rocks and the puffs of dust and call for aid.

But he still had the advantage of invisibility, better hearing, greater speed, and sight. And his magical ability, of course. Giving the camp a wide berth, he crouched at the slightest noise and bolted as soon as the coast was clear, his spurts of speed leaving him heaving for air. How long had he been in Helgrind? What happened to his stamina?

"Playing hide-and-go-seek, are we?"

Eragon skid to a grinding halt, falling backwards at the shock of hearing that voice.

For one, horrifying moment, it sounded like Murtagh, the hiss that Eragon remembered so well. That voice once so strangely emotional, then so violently furious, echoed in his head as he darted the other way- 'I see you hiding behind Nasuada's skirts! Come and fight me!'- that what his brother- half brother- had cried.

But it wasn't Murtagh.

"Cat and mouse, my friend!" Chunky laughed. "You will suffer for this!"

How had that fat magician gotten out of Helgrind- gotten ahead of him- found him? Eragon cast a glance over his shoulder as he fled and realized that he had been tricked, just like Chunky.

The magician couldn't see him.

He had been guessing, and he guessed right at the precise moment necessary. Chunky peered into the darkness, eyes squinting, his hand holding a flame- but too far to Eragon's right. Smiling, Eragon realized what he could do- what tricks he could play on that cursed servant.

A mere word sent a pile of loose stones scattering across the ground, but opposite him, so Chunky whirled around and sent a blast of light that way. Eragon took the opportunity to send chains around his ankles and wrists, and darted away as the magician howled. Eragon heard the blast of the chains breaking and reacted by increasing his speed.

"What are you doing, you blubbering idiot?" Fat howled, his words echoing as Eragon sped away. "You worthless fool, you lost him!" A series of curses too vulgar to put on paper followed Eragon farther and farther away, making the Blue Rider smile with triumph.

Saphira groaned as the boils and welts across her back seared with pain, increasing their cries as she shifted position. The chains around her snout and legs wailed as she moved, blood oozing from the too-small fetters. All of her being ached; from the tip of her snout to the end of her tail every muscle in her body lamented their depraved state, screaming for her to stop moving, to let them rest.

And the fury grew hot within her belly; the anger of what those magicians had done to her, what they may have done to Eragon-

Her lips voluntarily curled into a snarl as she thought of those fat two-leggeds; of what atrocities they had done to her, of what prize they planned on getting from her-

She would kill them.

She would begin by pinning them down, like they had pinned down her; then she would burn them, like they had done to her. Then she would take her claws and rip them apart, like they had done to her; then she would torch those wounds, like they had done to her. She would bite off parts of their body, though they had not yet done that to her, but she would chew them and spit them out again, and make them scream like the pathetic infants that they were, and wail for mercy, and beg for forgiveness, and promise her anything she wanted-

And she would reply that she wanted three things. The first, of course, was her Rider. The second, her revenge, and the third, obviously, was their deaths. And then she would catch them up in her mouth and use her teeth to take the life from their frail forms, and chew them up and spit their carcasses out again, because it was below her to let such evil things into her system. She would leave their heaps to rot in the sun for the carrion to eat, and let the stench of their evilness bury itself into the mind of any who saw it, and let the sight of their formless masses imbed itself into the mind of any who saw it, forming a concrete memory of disgust.

And all would learn from their example: never anger a Daughter of the Sky.

She would have her revenge, and she would be happy.

P.S.- Sorry the update took so long; the fanfiction site was having problems. I'll update again tomorrow... hopefully?


	15. Chapter 15 Disastrous Mistake

I take it that you people like Murtagh chappies more than Eragon ones- at least, there are more reviews for the Red Rider's parts.

Sorry I didn't update yesterday, like I said I would. To be honest, I was waiting for more reviews, but oh well. Here you go! :D I really hope everyone likes this chapter- I'm quite pleased with it.

**Chapter 15: Disastrous Mistake**

Charging into the darkness, Eragon focused on one thing, and one thing only.

Safety.

If all went well, he could reach Feinster in a day or two. If not... Eragon refused to think of the possibility.

The night passed swiftly, pale dawn creeping over the horizon to welcome Eragon for the first time in too long. It drove away the early morning frost and warmed the Blue Rider, who had to squint as the light reflected off of the frost at his fleet feet. He guessed he had been away for a week, perhaps more. Every so often he would glance at the cloudy blue expanse above him, extending his mind to find his welded partner.

No one could capture Saphira- they had only captured him to use as bait for her.

She had to be safe, or the Empire would pay for it.

Murtagh would pay for it; what other magician, besides the Black King, had such power? Who else could withstand such force- of a dragon and brightsteel and a hundred other bodies crowding a massive dome?

Then where had the magicians come in? Hadn't they mentioned something about the Spawn of the Devil? Did Galbatorix have children, then? Or was Murtagh the Devil's Child?

Stumbling, Eragon realized that he had forgotten his own wounds. With the adrenaline worn off, the pain began creeping up his body once more, starting in his blackened toes.

Toes weren't supposed to be black...?

Hearing the tickle of a stream, Eragon headed that direction, needing both the water to drink and to wipe away the grime that covered his injured form. The only marks he noticed were those of horses, and so he entered the clearing and leaned over the water.

Horror lept to his throat as soon as he saw his reflection. He had not noticed the dull throbbing in his skull, but as soon as he jolted back, the pain returned in full force. He looked like a... like a corpse. Like a dead man. And that was only his face!

Gingerly glancing at himself, Eragon grimanced as he realized the horrors he had been victim of. His arms and hands, scarred and bruised, were covered by welts and burns; his legs and torso were the same. Why were his fingers black?

Leaning back over the water, he fingered the disfigured face that watched him from the water's reflection. Most of his hair had been burned away, leaving patches of blond on his head. His revealed head resembled his arms and legs- burned and covered by splotches of black, red- and was that green? What had those magicians done to him? What was wrong with his eyes? They were blue- right? They had been blue, not orange! His nose had healed while broken- it was crooked- and his cheeks were both lumpy.

Water could wash away the dirt and the blood, but Eragon refused to risk his energy in Aren to heal everything that was not necessary. His toes, for example, were returned to their normal state, but the bruises could wait, and since he didn't know what was wrong with his eyes, he decided not to waste time deciding how to fix them.

Water.

He could scry people with water. He could make a mirror- he could see his friends, find out how everyone was doing, what was happening-

Encouraged, Eragon summoned the spell and found himself staring at Arya, who was sparring with one of the twelve elves. The other noticed him first, losing the fight by the distraction.

"Shurt'urgal!"

Arya whipped around, her eyes widening with horror as Eragon internally cringed at her reaction.

"Eragon! How- what-?" She stuttered, shocked.

"I was tortured; I don't know what is all wrong with me." He confessed, drinking in the sight of her; "I escaped and am headed to the Varden. Are you still in Feinster?"

"Yes- we fear attack-"

"I passed the Empire's army last night. I don't doubt that there will be a battle. But is Saphira there? Where is she?"

A shadow passed over Arya's face. "Is she not with you?"

"No." Eragon breathed, shocked. "She's not there?"

"She hasn't been seen since your capture. Was she not in Helgrind?"

Eragon swore, a handful of the elves joining Arya's side as the Rider tossed a stone as far as he could.

"Are you alright, Shurturgal?" Blodgarm asked.

Eragon swore again. "No. I feel awful and half my mind is missing. No, I'm not fine."

"Tell us where you are, and we will find you." The elf promised.

"South of Leona Lake a league or two. I've been making good progress- I expect I can return by tomorrow night."

"Have you been followed?"

"Aye. The two magicians who captured me aren't pleased that I escaped, but I can't imagine that they can match my speed, much less catch up."

"Then we will find you by tomorrow morning." Blodgarm vowed, his feral teeth showing between parted lips.

Eragon nodded and wished them a better day than they would have had, ending the spell after giving Arya one last stare. She had not smiled this time- he wondered if that meant something had changed.

But he did not have time to consider Arya's expressions. Standing, he turned from the stream and continued on, flying over hill and valley. Time passed without his notice as the sun climbed over his head and slid back down the opposite side. But he did not slow. His fuel: Saphira.

Saphira.

He had to find her.

But he was not as alone as he thought.

"Cat and mouse, little Rider? You cannot outsmart us." Fat began, stepping from the growing shadows.

"Where is she?" Eragon hissed, slowing down and glaring at the magician.

"Where you can't find her."

"Tell me!" Eragon roared, throwing a blue ball of fire at the magician of twisted mind. Fat sidestepped it and watched as it exploded against a tree.

"Anger will not get you anywhere."

"Tell that to Galbatorix." Eragon spat.

"Temper temper! Calm down, and perhaps you will be able to find some answers."

"You're lying."

"Of course not. Why would I do that?"

"Because you're a criminal, a traitor, and you have no conscience."

"Of course I do!"

"Then why do you commit such atrocities against all those innocent people in Helgrind? You kill them, you son of a-"

"I think that's enough. This conversation is not getting anywhere." Chunky interrupted, stepping from the shadows opposite Fat.

"Where is she?" Eragon roared.

"Who is she?"

"Saphira you blockhead! If you've so much as touched her-"

"We're going to pay for it, blah blah blah. Useless, empty threats. We hear them everyday from those like you."

"And you deserve each and every one of them to happen."

"Such a hater!" Fat cried.

"He and his brother have much in common, obviously." Chunky laughed.

That was the final straw.

With a roaring charge, Eragon slammed an invisible wall into Chunky, then sent a speeding ball of fire towards Fat, rolling as the latter sent an arrow at him. His anger responded with a hail of stones and boulders, aimed in all directions so the cowards could not dodge them. Drawing Brisingr, Eragon turned to face Chunky- Fat was planted face-first into the ground, unmoving- who was armed only with a bow.

"Where is she?" Eragon repeated.

"You will not see her again."

"Now who's the one using empty threats? I will see her again."

"That's what Murtagh said about you, before Thorn hatched." Chunky hissed. "He said he'd see you again, and wasn't that reunion lovely?"

With a bellow Eragon surged towards him, colliding with the magician and sending them rolling into the nearby shrubbery. The Rider felt the crinkled map fall out of his back pocket in the tumble, but didn't have the time to grab it before the magician retaliated. Chunky sent him a wild punch which hit Eragon's own knuckles- still heavily callused- and the attacker roared in pain before finding himself flat on his back, Eragon seething on top of him.

"Where is she?" Eragon hissed, Brisingr not an inch from the magician's face.

The man smiled, evilness shining bright in his eyes. "In Uru'baen." And then his eyes flickered beyond Eragon, a shadow passed over them-

And Eragon remembered no more.


	16. Chapter 16 Double Find

I made a mistake in the last chapter- mentioned it- and Eragon told Arya that he had been in Helgrind. She didn't just magically realize that. Okay? Okay. Sorry! My bad!

High time for an update, don't you agree? Don't forget to review! :D

**Chapter 16: Double Find**

Murtagh expected his assignment to be another boring check-up on the army, reminding them of the King's superiority, of the Empire's supposed strength.

He was wrong.

Yes, it started normally. He arrived, and was greeted by cheers and what-not. The typical, inexperienced generals trying to bribe him- one even mentioned his daughter. But as soon as he met with the captain of the watches- he controlled the scouts and patrols- Murtagh knew something was up.

He was the only soldier of the Empire Murtagh truly liked. Stern, gruff, non-alcoholic, and brief. Oh yes- that was Murtagh's kind of man. He didn't care what other people thought of him, nor what they thought of his decisions; but any man with a face so scarred it looked like a mason had played with it couldn't be lightly argued with.

"The head magicians were here last night." He began, leaning over a map. "They caused an uproar among my men. Brought a clamor with them, dead of night too- got angry because they wouldn't show their faces and my men shot. Killed two."

"Where had they been?"

"I don't know. Came from the direction of the Rock, but what they would've been doing there, I don't know. They were looking for someone. A prisoner- said he was dangerous and armed. A magician."

"Did you manage to track them?"

"Nearly two leagues. I had my men guard the spot where they found the prisoner, in case your Lordship would like to inspect it. Three watch it at all times."

"Which direction?"

"Towards Feinster, but a bit to the right. There's a flag there, should you miss the spot."

_Are you coming? _Thorn snapped. _All these two-leggeds are drunk. I'd very much like to eat one or two of them._

_I don't care, through the King might. _Murtagh replied. _I'll be there as soon as I can. Go fishing, or something. Just try not to burn down anything. _

_ I learned that the last time. _

True to his word, Murtagh rushed through his remaining duties, oftentimes leaving reporting commanders hanging as he simply left. Some wanted his opinion on rations, or armor, or battalion size, or this, or that-

It drove Murtagh insane.

Finishing the tasks that would normally take a day in under two hours, Murtagh headed toward Thorn's ruby form, drifting over the lake.

_You take forever. _Thorn complained.

_And you need something better to do._ Murtagh retaliated.

_Yes, I do. Can we go hunting tonight? _

_ I don't know why we couldn't. Anything to get out of this hole. _

That brightened Thorn's mood, with the crisp, clear air of the wilderness. Flying to the spot the commander had described, Thorn landed only spans from the first soldier. The man's eyes widened to the size of watermelons.

_He's a boy._ Thorn commented, leaning down to face the soldier. _A very frightened boy, too_.

Dismounting, Murtagh had to agree. He looked fifteen or sixteen, probably younger, with dusty blond hair and a left-handed grip.

"You're holding your sword incorrectly." Murtagh noticed.

"It's not my sword, m'Lord." The boy said, his words shaking. "My sword broke and it's being mended. This is the replacement."

"Then it's still your sword, even if for a short time. It is still your link between life or death."

Nodding, the boy switched hands, holding it correctly in his other hand.

Turning back to the scene, Murtagh found what he expected; a scuffle of footprints, hand prints in the dirt, and scattered rocks. Oh- and the burned tree. If the prisoner had been a magician, Murtagh was surprised to find so few signs of his power. A lap around the perimeter revealed nothing more, until Murtagh stepped on a wrinkled, yellow page.

It was a map.

A map of Helgrind.

One of the fell magicians must have dropped it and not noticed- how like them! Studying the map, Murtagh smirked at his discovery; if he ever had need to drop by the magicians, he would not have to fear getting lost in the Rock. An armory, a study, a lab- they harbored quite the prison.

Folding up the page and tucking it into his pocket, Murtagh continued scanning the area. His vision found nothing more of note, but Thorn's did.

Besides picking up on everything that was red, Thorn's eyes saw everything in a much more specific way than Murtagh's. One saw the leaves, the clouds in the sky; the other saw the trees and the landscape as a whole. So Thorn was the one who noticed the gleaming speck, half-buried in the mud.

A ring.

Murtagh recognized that ring before he had it in his hands.

Aren.

Brom had given Eragon that ring just before he died, or something like that. Just touching the blue stone in the middle told Murtagh that a vast quantity of energy was in it, but how-?

Eragon.

The prisoner was a powerful magician.

Eragon had gone missing.

…

Murtagh's mind put the pieces together, though his heart did not.

He glanced towards the Rock in the distance, a haven for sacrifices and otherworldly rituals. And a prison, and a cave, and a hide-out, and a torturing room, and-

His brother was in there.

Murtagh could only guess how Eragon escaped in the first place- the King had assigned the magicians to use Helgrind as a place to torture the Varden's spies, and their double-crossers. Eragon could not fit in that category, but all the same...

How had he even gotten captured? Through his own stupidity, no doubt. He had always needed someone to save him.

Where was Saphira?

Thorn asked the same question, his ruby eyes combing the landscape for any sign of the blue dragoness.

_Let's check the place now._ Thorn said, crouching for Murtagh to climb upon his back.

_The magicians may be there_. Murtagh countered. _Think, Thorn. We need a plan._

_Fly in there and tear the place apart. He suggested with a hiss. _

Murtagh wanted to agree, to act upon their wants, but both knew that if they raised a talon or Zar'roc against either of those magicians, they'd freeze, paralyzed by Galbatorix's oaths.

_We'll get those bastards soon. Murtagh promised, glaring towards the Rock. Very soon_.

Later that night, as Thorn growled in his dreams, Murtagh sat by his dying fire, his thoughts wandering as he stared into the glowing flames. His mind roamed from his mother, choosing Eragon over him, to why he had been captured, why he had to suffer his miserable fate, why he had to be given an elf. A song he remembered from his childhood, one of the few memories he had of his mother's voice, played itself over and over in his head. It would not fade, like the memory he had of killing King Hrothgar or Oromis and Glaedr, but kept repeating itself like a singer whose voice never grew hoarse.

_I know a way of ease and grace_

_ Where problems never see my face_

_ But that, my friend, is not to be _

_ If I want to live always free. _

_ I must be strong, I must endure,_

_ Laziness is not the cure-_

_ For problems always will arise_

_ To take me in my own surprise, _

_ But I will never bow or break_

_ Unless my life I let them take. _

_ I must be strong, I must endure,_

_ Prosperity will be assured_

_ That I had never failed my task_

_ Or hid behind a coward's mask._

_ Others do depend on me_

_ I must be sure that they are free. _


	17. Chapter 17 Where Are You Where Am I?

I'm really surprised that you all liked the poem- I call it Selena's Lullaby. Eragon sang it in Chapter 3, and yes, I did write it. :)

I wrote this chapter a few weeks ago (right now I'm on Chapter 22) and I distinctly remember having writers block. That may make things a bit clearer... maybe? It's styled differently, but I hope you like it.

Don't forget to review!

**Chapter 17: Where Are You- Where Am I? **

Eragon awoke to a burning pain in his arms, starting in his fingers and shooting up to his shoulder. He hissed as the feeling registered in his mind.

"He's awake."

"Good morning, my little friend." Chunky smiled, his yellow, brick teeth glinting in the waning light. "Ready for some fun?"

Eragon was too groggy, too confused to reply.

But then the pain came, sharp and crystallizing his mind. He remembered everything, from his escape to the fight, then the blackness- one of them must have knocked him uncontious.

Rather than being strapped to a table, Eragon was chained to the wall, his arms burning from supporting his weight. The magicians looked gleeful to the point of insanity, wild gleams in their eyes like a child eating a stolen cookie.

"You will suffer no pain if you answer our questions." Fat began, tossing a ball of fire from hand to hand.

"And you will answer them in the Ancient Language." Chunky continued.

"First question: how were you changed?"

Eragon kept his lips sealed, though the temptation to answer lurked all too close to his tongue. His change could not be reversed, and thus, could not help Galbatorix, nor could he reduplicate the effects.

"Wrong answer." Fat said, and threw the flaming ball into Eragon's face.

Saphira refused to so much as open her eyes for those magicians, no matter what they did to her. She snarled and pulled her lip back, but not for long; they had tried to cut out her fangs. One of them had come that close to losing an arm- _that close_. She didn't know which one, but she supposed it was the one who had pulled off her talons.

They could never do much to her, though physically, she felt like a wreck. With her hind talons gone, her claws ached and bled- she felt the warm blood slipping between her useless appendages.

If Eragon felt this same pain, she would make those magicians feel ten times that much.

Nasuada ran a long hand down her face, slouched in her chair before a desk cluttered with papers.

The Varden was in utter chaos, and she could do nothing about it.

Scouting groups scoured the countryside for any sign of Eragon and Saphira- they had been missing for a month, and hope began slipping through their fingers. If they were in Uru'baen, the Varden had no chance of ever defeating the King.

_Where are you, Eragon? _She wondered. _Where are you?_

Roran threw his hammer across the clearing, yelling, releasing his anger and fury. The weapon hit a tree with a satisfying thud, the branches quivering from the impact.

A month, and Eragon still had not been found.

Was that good or bad?

Did that mean he was alive, and fighting Galbatorix? Did it mean he still had hope? Did it mean he was undefeated? Did it mean he had a plan? Did it mean he was hurting the King, whether his plans or his strength?

Or did it mean he was in training, learning from Galbatorix? Did it mean he was turned against them, his family, the Varden, that he and Saphira were now of twisted mind? Did it mean the King had his way?

Or was he dead?

Roran choked the thought away. Eragon couldn't be dead. He couldn't be- he just couldn't. Eragon would never give up, he would never give into the King.

How many scouting parties had he ordered, all in vain? How many times had he returned, only to report that they had failed? How many times had his fears driven away rest- how many times had he laid awake at night, wondering, dreading, what could be reality?

"Where are you Eragon?" He roared, throwing his head back and glaring at the impassive sky. "Where are you?"

Arya bit her lip and scanned the clearing, pushed to the limit of her patience.

Eragon wasn't there.

"My Lady?" Blodgharm asked. "Any orders?"

Arya furrowed her brow, furious. Those cursed magicians! What had they done? Where was Eragon?

"Half will stay here." She answered, effortlessly. Yes- that was the right thing to do, just in case he did come. "Half will go on- we shall look for him."

He had been gone a month- for such a short time, it made such a large impact. The Varden wallowed in hopelessness, the elves in mourning, the dwarves in frustration. The Urgals, too, seemed confused- where was the Blue Rider?

But a month had changed more than hope. A month had changed perspective- it shocked Arya that a mere month had changed a year of her opinion, and two years of denial.

"Where are you, Eragon?" Arya whispered, so softly that none could hear her plea. "Where are you?"

Galbatorix furrowed his brow, pacing across the throne room, occasionally facing the massive map painted onto the wall, most of the time staring at the ground.

He had to find that blasted Rider.

He had to find Saphira, before the window for his great plan was lost.

Every soldier was on the alert, every scout double. Every pair of eyes he controlled was peering into every crevice, searching under every rock, climbing every mountain, looking for Murtagh's damned brother.

Except Murtagh, of course. No need to encourage his already rebellious thoughts.

The King doubted he was dead, suspected that he was in hiding, perhaps training under another master elf. But how could the Varden afford that? They needed him like the rest of Alagaesia needed Galbatorix. He had heard of the invisible dome that trapped Eragon and Saphira, seen their vanishing in several memories, but never heard a whisper of where they may be.

"Where are you, Eragon?" Galbaotorix hissed.


	18. Chapter 18 The King's Games

You people are AMAZING, WONDERFUL, AND UTTERLY INCREDIBLE. I LOVE YOU. SO. MUCH. Please, just keep reviewing!

To Dragonwagon- 1) hilarious name, and 2) I'm writing Chapter 23 specifically for you, because your review did remind me that I haven't been writing a lot in a dragon's POV. That will change, my friend. Chapter 23.

To Astenbaud- Quick story: My mom was looking over my shoulder when I read your review, and she freaked out. It was hilarious! She just doesn't understand that cussing is good in reviews- that it shows just how strong your opinion is. XD I'm glad you like it. :)

To - Insidious. That's the perfect description of me. :)

And to everyone else- YOU ARE AWESOME.

Just a quick little backstory behind this Chapter- I had just finished reading the Hunger Games when I wrote this. Are there any other Hunger Games fans reading this? Well, this is for you. :)

Enjoy!

**Chapter 18: The King's Games**

Sweat dripped into Murtagh's eyes- he furiously blinked it away, hardly noticing its sting. The light glared in his eyes, but he did not shy away. The sun burned his skin, but he did not care. He stood in a puddle of blood, and that was what reminded him to keep fighting- because some of that blood was his own.

The ten magicians were more crafty than the others, the ones Murtagh normally trained with. The massive cage, the wheel, the unpredictable arena, a creation of the King's for his own entertainment, housed the eleven contenders as a crowd watched.

Murtagh hated being a pawn in Galbatorix's games. Game, in this case. That bastard king set the rules and broke them, decided their weapons, the opponents, the obstacles. The prize? Nothing of note to Murtagh. The magicians were vying for a promotion- the thing Murtagh could only get by killing the King.

And with a blast, the third magician flew across the clearing, his sickening thud sending a shudder of disgust down Murtagh's back. The crowd, invisible to Murtagh and the other magicians, roared their approval. The Red Rider imagined their bets, their gambles on who would be the victor.

A snap alerted Murtagh that he wasn't alone. Crouching in the springy underbrush, he caught sight of a limping magician, dripping blood, who seemed too shaken up to play the rest of the Game. Murtagh hit him over the head with Zar'roc's hilt- the magician never saw it coming.

He never killed anyone in the Games, ever. He only wounded them enough so they were pulled out. The King wanted blood, so Murtagh gave him blood. But none of it would stain his hands with murder, though the other magicians stopped at nothing to kill him. They could never get that far, but any of his blood seemed to tempt them for more- he ripped off one sleeve with his teeth and bandaged the shallow cut across his forearm.

Two down, nine more to go.

Murtagh didn't have to personally wound all of them- they were enemies to each other as well as him- and so he treaded through the wood to find another battle. Distracted magicians were not known for their alertness on their surroundings, and so another three fell to Murtagh's red spells.

Five down, six more to go.

Ten minutes later of no blood, the crowd was getting anxious, murmurs of boredom and unease rippling across the arena. Hearing the blasts of battle, Murtagh stalked through the wood, stealthy as a dragon circling his prey.

Two individual skirmishes had started by a creek between five magicians- which meant one was hiding out somewhere in the woods. Coward. Blood was everywhere- on the trees, polluting the water, dieing the grass, painting the contenders. Murtagh leaned against a tree and watched- no need to get involved. Watching the stirred pot settle, as Kidasku would say. It was what he was best at.

It did not satisfy the King, and that's why Murtagh did it.

One of the magicians fell, dead. Perhaps that cowardly one would come out of his hiding place to join the blood bath.

Six down, five to go.

Murtagh didn't have to wait long. A scream pierced the fight, sounding over the grunts and hisses of the contenders, and Murtagh listened as the cowardly magician crashed through the forest, still screaming. The Red Rider never moved from his position, leaning against the tree, but his hand slid closer to Zar'roc.

Something chased the magician- something small and furry and fast. This magician was bleeding too, cuts down his arm, neck, and back streaming the red liquid. The coward spun around and threw a blast of orange magic at his attacker, but the thing ducked and hissed loudly.

Murtagh rolled his eyes. Kidasku always had loved fights- especially winning them.

The screaming magician distracted the other fighters- the crowd roared as Kidasku in his cat form darted into the clearing and hit each of the magicians. More blood.

Bored and hungry, Murtagh decided it was high time for the Game to end. His red magic curled around the stunned magicians like burning fingers, wrapping around them and throwing them to the ground. He heard a few bones crack- ribs, probably- and Kidasku the cat turned up his lips and smiled, his fangs glinting and his whiskers twitching.

Eleven down, none to go.

Game over.

The crowd went wild.

Kidasku darted into the forest and returned a moment later, back to his typical boyish form, wearing nothing more than a pair of over-sized pants.

"Nothing is a challenge for you anymore." The werecat laughed, his fingers dripping blood from when they were claws.

Murtagh rolled his eyes and turned to find the exit.

"I decided I should get some practice of defense and attack, since the King wants me to fend for myself." He began, wearing his most pleading face. "Making me leave my home- my home!- after so many years... this is all I've ever known, and he's forcing me to leave..." He sniffed, wiping away a non-existent tear from his cheek.

Vying for pity, of course. The crowd would savor his lament and weep their empty tears over his pathetic situation. Perhaps Kidasku wanted support, a nobleman or two who would protect him if he chose to stay.

"I've been here longer than the King has even been alive, and he's making me leave!" The werecat sobbed. Murtagh had to admit he was a talented actor. "I've never interrupted him, never bothered him, never threatened his security... and- and- and now-! I thought he simply didn't want me to come to his Gala, since I never got his invitation, but to think he wants me to leave! This is my home!" The werecat flung himself to the ground, curling up in a fetal position as sobs racked his body. "My home!"

Pouring it on, then. Murtagh couldn't imagine the panic now- the very thought of not receiving an invitation to the King's Annual Gala probably classified as one of their worst nightmares. Murtagh, on the other hand, burned his invitation. Every time.

A door appeared on one of the trees- orange against the brown- and without another thought, Murtagh walked through it, eager to be out of the Arena.

The King was waiting for him, his face impassive.

That was when he was most dangerous- when he balanced on the edge of a knife, where the slightest tip could send him into a fit of anger or crafty planning.

"Carefully, Murtagh." Galbatorix hissed. "You don't want another punishment, do you?"

Murtagh bowed, hating his miserable existence.

And the King swept past him, into the Arena. Murtagh didn't stay to see why.

The Red Rider headed straight for the kitchens, his stomach growling as he swept through the palace. He had used more energy than he thought- oh well. The cooks and maids would have to tolerate the sight and smell of him for a few minutes; Murtagh hoped no one would talk to him. He wasn't in the mood.

It was a vain hope.

The kitchen quieted when he entered, but promptly returned to its previous noise level when he hunkered down in a corner to eat in peace. The room smelled nice, especially compared to himself, and Murtagh was considering bringing something for Halia and Kidasku when the terrified maid gave him a bowl of thick, beef stew, a mug of beer, and an entire loaf of fresh bread.

His corner was dark and quiet- exactly how he liked it. Invisible, for the most part, and forgotten. He could watch and eat in peace.

Or not.

He heard the shoes before he saw them, listened to the impatient tap, the shrill voice before the speaker, smelled the perfume. Ugh. Noblewomen. Always vain, always shallow.

And then he internally groaned, because she was coming towards him, determination in her short steps. It was too late to become invisible, and silence didn't hold the same power over women that it did men. Women had monologues, ready to deliver at any moment; men did not. Most of the time.

"Lord Murtagh." The shrill voice trilled. It grated on the man's nerves.

He rolled his eyes, his dark hair flopping over his face, and focused his attention on the warm bowl of stew.

"Do you know the date of His Majesty's Gala?"

Straight to the point. She probably didn't want to talk to him anymore than he did her.

"Same day each year." He muttered, the bright pink fabric of her dress standing out against the drab brown and gray of the kitchen. He didn't look at her face- no need too. They wore all the same powdered masks.

"Rumor said the King was considering postponing it until he had one of the Varden to make as a spectacle."

The King had given up Halia- he must've been convinced of her innocence.

"The King can't postpone his own birthday." He always had the Gala on his birthday.

"Too true."

Why was she still there? Her feet shifted, undecided. _Yes, please leave_. Murtagh thought. _Before I make you_.

"You did well today in the Arena, my Lord."

He had nothing to say to _that_.

"Might I ask a question of you, my Lord?"

"You already have been."

"True. But Lord Murtagh... why do you never kill your opponents?"

Oh. _Oh_. So some people were too thick sculled to figure it out? "They don't deserve to die." Murtagh scowled. "And the King's army needs more fighters, not less. If that isn't apparent, you're blind."

_That was harsh._ Thorn reproved him.

"The King's army has the strong upper hand, Lord Murtagh. You are the primary general- surely you don't doubt that. The Varden is nothing more than a horde of unsatisfied peasants."

Murtagh clenched his teeth and balled his available fist into a ball- if she weren't a lady, he'd wallop her over the head.

"Then you are blind."

Murtagh rose and strode out of the kitchen, ignoring her startled gasp. He had, unfortunately, caught sight of her powdered face- blond hair, blue eyes. Just like Eragon, just like his mother.

He ran as soon as he was out of the kitchen. Servants scuttled to the side as he barreled past them, but he hardly paid them any attention. All except one.

"No running in the halls!" One old woman began, her lips tight. "Not even you, Murtagh."

Only she could call him Murtagh- she had been his nanny when he was younger, and one of the few members of Morzan's household to still live.

"You need a bath." She continued as he jogged past. "And you need to care for that elf of yours."

Murtagh grinded to a halt, giving her The Glare. She didn't back down.

"Are you planning on introducing us sometime soon?" She demanded.

"No." Why would he do that?

"Well, you better think about it. Keeping her locked in there- its cruel of you."

"It's safest for her." Murtagh snapped.

"She's already read your library three times over, hasn't she?"

Murtagh ground his teeth- only someone who had known him as a child would be able to resist the Glare as long as she could.

"And I don't suppose you've thought of getting her some decent clothing, have you? Is she altering yours? Does she have absolutely anything to do in there, or does she sleep all day?"

Murtagh didn't know about the sleeping part, though Kidasku probably kept her company most of the day.

"Don't let her be any more miserable, Murtagh. That's very cruel of you."

Murtagh, though Nanny Fae (as he had once called her) had much more to say, turned and hurried away. He didn't need her _and_ Galbatorix telling him what to do.

Though she did have a point.

_You need to get out of here_. Thorn muttered. _You're going crazy, and it's only been a few days since our last assignment._

He had a point too.

Murtagh changed directions, and rather than going to the dragonhold as he had planned, he turned to hurry back to his rooms.

"And now where are you running too?" Nanny Fae asked. "I told you to not run! Don't you remember the time you slipped and cracked your skull?"

Yes, Murtagh remembered, but no, he wouldn't listen to her.

He burst into his rooms, eager to leave the castle. His guest, however spoiled the mood.

"He's back, obviously." Kidasku began. "Murtagh! Where have you been? I was just showing Halia the Game!"

Murtagh froze in the doorway, horror sending volts of numbness through his spine. Kidasku, that blasted werecat, sat next to Halia, holding in his claw-like paws a glass mirror. Images, bright and nimble, danced across its surface.

It was Old Magic, the kind the King didn't like or understand, and thus, had never taught Murtagh.

Kidasku had constructed a mirror, a way to portray memories to a wide audience without ever having to open one's mind. Whatever Kidasku remembered flowed straight onto the mirror, and from there, straight to Halia.

A flash of red caught Murtagh's attention, snapping him from his shock.

Zar'roc.

The frozen horror melted beneath his burning fury, and Murtagh reached out for the mirror. It obeyed his order and flew straight to his hand. From his hand, it met the wall, where it shattered into a thousand diamond fragments.

"Oh yes." Kidasku murmured. Halia sat frozen where she was, her empty hands clutched together. She stared at the shattered mirror, not meeting anyone's gaze. "You don't like the Arena."

"And why would I, Kidasku?" Murtagh hissed. "Why would I enjoy pleasing the King?"

"Because you're his right hand man, after all." Kidasku shrugged.

That was the final straw.

Murtagh pounced forward, catching Kidasku in one hand and pinning him against the far wall. Their eyes were inches apart, red burning through yellow. Both hissed, infuriated. Halia didn't move, though Murtagh could feel her green eyes boring through his back.

"You're testing my patience, Kidasku." Murtagh threatened.

"You never had any patience."

Murtagh's hand tightened around Kidasku's throat. "I don't have to take you anywhere."

"No, you don't." Kidasku agreed, his voice sliding between his teeth. "Though it is preferable."

"I'm not afraid to kill you."

"Of course you aren't. That's why the King likes you so much." Kidasku gasped, struggling for any breath- "It's also why he hates you."

_That was unexpected._ Thorn muttered.

"Explain." Murtagh growled.

"You'd kill him at the first opportunity-"

"Who wouldn't?" The Red Rider snarled.

"-and so he can't let you out of his grasp. You're his biggest weakness, and his strongest card. The opposites in one. And he hates you for it, because you hold more power over him than he does over you."

"Lie." Murtagh snarled, letting Kidasku slide to the floor. "I am a slave. No one is more vulnerable to evil than I am. Shruikan alone can argue with that."

And with that, Murtagh stalked out of the room, his fists clenched, trying to master his flaming temper.

Kidasku turned to smile at Halia, his yellow eyes gleaming. "I think my plan is working quite well." He grinned, a cough racking his frame.

"Perhaps too well." She muttered, shaking his head.


	19. Chapter 19 The Streets of Uru'baen

First of all, a few people have been asking why I made Eragon have blond hair and blue eyes, and it's my bad. I was obviously very confused- I didn't realize he had brown hair and brown eyes (thank you TheLunyOne for clearing up that confusion!).

And it sounds like I have POV problems. Hmm. If you people could point out where I fumble, that would be great. Thanks!

HeadintheClouds- The number of magicians was always 11, but Murtagh counted ten as his enemies. Ten to get rid of, in other words.

Anyway, you people are awesome! I'll probably update Wednesday of this week too, so... enjoy!

**Chapter 19: The Streets of Uru'baen**

The dark night comforted Murtagh, for reasons he never understood. Perhaps it was because, for once, no one saw him and hurried away. Or maybe because he was ignored rather than feared. Or because people didn't outrightly hate him. Or a mixture of all three.

Or because he could be alone in peace.

Disguised, Murtagh headed into a dark, quiet tavern. No one was drunk there- thankfully- and the few other people sat at tables minding their own business. The food wasn't bad either, and the 12 year old server didn't ask any questions. He had to admit- outside of the castle, Uru'baen wasn't all that bad. His few years as a ruffian- camping out in the streets every night, rooting through trash bins for dinner- proved that fact.

"Still missin', I hear." One man muttered. He and one other sat in a dark booth, rather dark-looking fellows. "I think the King's got 'im."

Who? There was only one answer.

"Then why ain't we heard nothin'?" The other asked. "Ya'd think it be big 'nough news. It'd kill the Varden, too, knowin' Eragon was a goner."

The King would never hide news like that- not when it would strike a crippling blow to the Varden.

"Murtagh wasn't a goner even though the King got 'im." The other replied.

Wasn't a goner. Past tense. So the people thought he was beyond hope- they weren't the only ones to think that. The dinner unexpectedly took a bitter taste.

Thorn mentally disagreed, but Murtagh shut him out, cutting his dragon from his misery and agony. Thorn didn't need to suffer with him.

But Thorn fueled Murtagh's pain, though unintentionally. That slavery would be the only thing he would ever know... that he could never breath the free air or make his own decisions...

"Sir?" The little girl squeaked, noticing his clenched fist. "Do you want anything else?"

"No." Murtagh threw on his stoic mask once more- no need to frighten the little thing. "The meal was good."

She seemed a little relieved, though Murtagh pried her mind and realized that the men in the dark booth frightened her. He could easily deal with them...

Murtagh handed her several gold coins- her eyes widened bigger than apples.

"Let- let me go get your change-" She stuttered.

"Keep one for yourself." Murtagh began, "And the rest should cover any potential damage done to this place."

She didn't ask any questions, like any girl with common sense. But Murtagh could feel her eyes on the back of his head as he approached the gentlemen in the dark booth. Both watched him suspiciously as he pulled up a chair and propped his feet on their table.

"I couldn't help but eavesdrop on your conversation," Murtagh began easily, staring each in the eye, "And I'd like to hear more of your opinions."

One was borderline drunk. "Oh, well, that darn Eragon is plumb missin', fell off the face of the world, or somethin', an' I wahs a-thinkin' that the King himself has got him locked up somewhere in that castle o' his, an' just bidin' his time for when he can- poof!- Reveal that Eragon has become jus' like the Red Rider. And then- pow! -War's ovah. His-tor-y. An' everythin' goes back t' the way it wahs."

The man hiccuped, and Murtagh's opinion of him fell another level.

"I think both of 'um are dead an' gone. Prob'ly kilt each other, th' way I hears they was fightin' t' th' death couple weeks back."

What a lovely reminder.

"Murtagh ain't dead, you pig-head!" The other, who was most certainly drunk, slurred. "I seen 'im 'bout two days 'go!"

_No, I'm not dead._ Murtagh mused. _Unfortunately_.

"An' soon, th' war's gunna be ovah and we're all gunna live hap'ly ev'r aft'r." The first decided. "No matt'r wheth'r those durn Rid'rs are dead 'r ahlive. So it don' matt'r much anyway."

"Yeah it do." The other burped. "They're gunna be th' death o' us if they don' kill each other first. Burnin' everythin', killin' everyone- one day, it's gunna be the King 'imself who comes out o' that durn castle and kills 'um 'imself!"

By this point disgust fueled each of Murtagh's words. "And you think that will be soon?"

"Uh-huh."

"And why would the King kill the other Riders?"

"'Cause they're dan-ger-ous. He mus' be an old man by now, rottin' away in his cast'e, an' that Murtagh an' Thorn and Er'gon an' his blue dragon are plumb dan-ger-ous."

"Yep." The other hiccupped.

"Threats t' his pow'r."

"Yep."

"An' the King only wants us t' b' safe, but we can't b' with them flyin' 'round, burnin' and killin' and- and- and burnin' and killin'-"

Infuriated beyond all control, Murtagh lept up and swung a hard crack to the first man's head- he sprawled forward on the table, motionless.

"Wha-?" The second gaped, too drunk to understand what was going on.

Murtagh broke his nose and head-slammed him to the table.

Stalking from the tavern, Murtagh morbidly wished they hadn't been _so_ drunk- maybe then he could've had a good fight.

The dark streets welcomed him with a silent fanfare- years ago, this place had been his home. His hideout, his sanctuary. Yes, he had lived in the slums, but freedom among the poorest trumped slavery among the wealthy.

He wished he had never met Eragon.

Granted, Thorn would not have hatched for him, but that would have been a good thing- for Thorn. The Varden could have stolen his egg, could have freed him from this life.

And Murtagh ruined that.

All because Eragon had been chased by the Ra'zac.

Laughter- a child's high pitched giggle- snapped Murtagh out of his morbid thoughts. A little boy, four or five, dashed from a black alley and scuttled across the road, something clutched in one hand. A man, shouting, charged after him and down the road.

At one time, Murtagh had been that little boy.

The little boy with the nasty scar.

Murtagh had always been aware of adults, when he was a ruffian- he remembered that aspect of life quite clearly. He remembered always running from them, always stealing from them, always avoiding them at all costs. He was afraid of them- after all, he was the one to suffer for his parents choices. Morzan, becoming Galbatorix's staunchest ally? Selena, becoming his consort?

He was the result of their mistakes, and he had to suffer for it.

And it wasn't fair.

When had life ever been fair to him? Was it fair to give a three-year old a scar that would brand him, mark him as the son of the traitor? Was it fair to abandon a four-year old, like Selena had? Was it fair to turn a five-year old to the streets? Was it fair to murder a fifteen-year old's best friend, when Tornac had died while he escaped? Was it fair to imprison a nineteen year old, just because of his heritage? Was it fair to enslave a twenty year old for wanting freedom? Was it fair to use a twenty-one year old, to force him to be a pawn in the game of war?

No, it wasn't. Fate had never been fair to him.

It wasn't fair that Eragon had lived his childhood innocently, away from Galbatorix'x prying eye. It wasn't fair that he was accepted by the Varden and Murtagh not, when they really had the same parentage. It wasn't fair that Eragon, the younger, had freedom, while the older suffered for his brother's actions. What else caused the King's wild fits of fury? Or the torture sessions, when Murtagh had done nothing condemnable? Punishable? Even remotely disobedient?

Damn the world. Murtagh, if he and Thorn ever managed to survive the war, no matter who won, would live in peace in some god-forsaken hole.

And they would be happy.

Murtagh didn't realize where his feet had taken him until the city walls loomed over him like black clouds before the storm. The Varden couldn't break into the city- no matter what weapons they created, what siege equipment they made, they could not cross this wall. And Murtagh couldn't get out. It was part of his slavery- he could not leave Uru'baen without the King's permission. It restricted everything- even when he and Thorn went flying just to go flying. Always the same reminder:

You are my slaves.

Murtagh didn't realize the entire night had past until the hum of a waking city roused him from his thoughts. The sun barely peeped over the horizon, the sky bathed in a murky mix of gray and blue.

Times passes, just as it always would, and always had.

Murtagh had to will himself to rise and head back towards the castle; his conscience fought against the movement, just as his weary legs dragged. The darkness had fled before the light; it did not console him anymore. He was alone, to fight the unconquerable servitude that awaited him.

"You're looking a little worse for the wear, sir." One vendor called, her hands on her hips. "Howabout I suit you up, fresh and new?"

Cloths and clothing lined her shop window, where she stood. Thread too, and needles. Inspiration struck- Murtagh headed towards her and inspected her wares.

"If you need leather, I've got that in the back." She continued, "In case you need more durable clothing than this."

Money was not an issue, with Murtagh's allowance from the King. "I'll take these two rolls, and another of leather."

"The- the entire rolls? That's quite a bit of fabric- over twenty yards each." She asked, stunned. Murtagh had to admit he didn't look like he had any money, with his worn and dirty costume. "That'll cost you a pretty penny, sir."

Murtagh pulled out his bag of coins. Her expression instantly grew greedy as she heard the rattle of gold and silver.

"Ah, well- let me go get the leather."

Murtagh left with a roll of warm, brown leather- decent quality- and two more of simple fabric. One was green satin, smooth and silky to the touch; the other was pale blue, a both durable and practical. He had also purchased several spools of thread, and a few more needles.

It was early enough that Halia was still resting when he reached his rooms; he set the supplies by a pile of books and silently slid back out. A strange sense of satisfaction settled in his gut as he slid down the hallway towards the dragonhold.

Perhaps Nannie Fae had been right.


	20. Chapter 20 Unwelcome Dreams

Hello everyone! I said I'd be in the mood to post today, and indeed I am! It's my birthday! Sweet sixteen, baby! Here's your present for being the most FANTASTIC, AMAZING, INSIGHTFUL, AND WONDERFUL REVIEWERS EVER! A massive thank you to, well, **_you_**, both the ones who've only clicked that button once and those of you who type me a note every single post. :D

I'd really love it if you all left me a little message... *hint, hint* :D

I'll post again Saturday, and as much I love this chapter (I mean, adore this chapter, as in, I wish every chapter was like this), the next one takes the epicness to a whole new level. :D

**Chapter 20: Unwelcome Dreams**

"Come, Murtagh." Selena murmured, smiling. Her blue eyes burned brighter than the northern sky, and her face glowed like the stars.

"Toming." Murtagh replied, his three-year old lisp bringing another smile across her face. He padded across the courtyard and past several servants. "Tan I wide the horwse?"

For a three year old, he was very verbal. He clearly had lost that skill with time.

She helped him onto the horse, an arm wrapped around him in motherly protection. "You're going to have your own horse soon, Murtagh. Would you like that?"

"Yes. I like widing wif you."

Selena laughed, her eyes betraying her joy at hearing those words. "I like riding with you too, Murtagh. You're a good rider, for your age."

The horse began cantering around the courtyard, around the gardens that Selena loved so much. Murtagh couldn't help but laugh, knowing the sound would make his mother happy. She seemed to be happy around him, most of the time.

"Tan we jump?" Murtagh asked, elated to be on the horse at all.

"Of course, Murtagh." She turned to a gardener, her charismatic smile warming the man's gray, sorrowful eyes. He had an eagle nose and the build of a swordsman rather than a lowly groundsman. "Nophel, can you please open the gate?"

"Absolutely not!" Roared a half-drunk voice. "No one open the gate!"

Murtagh felt the stiffness that ran down his mother's back; he responded similarly. Anyone with sense slunk out of Morzan's way, beyond his terrifying reach; the gardener Nophel slid to the edge of the gardens, but kept working.

"Selena." Morzan's rich voice, the same one that convinced her to come with him, brimmed with anger. He was always angry. "You are not to leave this castle."

"Morzan, love, is running a few jumps going to harm anyone? We would only be gone a few minutes, and always within sight of the castle." Selena murmured tactfully, her voice deprived of any of the joy it had just minutes before. "I would love your company."

Murtagh didn't want him to come, but lacked the courage to say it with Morzan around.

"No. Stay in the castle."

Selena sighed, and three year old Murtagh caught sight of Nophel the gardener watching her, gray eyes peering at her from the brim of his straw hat. "As you wish, then."

Morzan stalked out of the garden, only to turn around and demand everyone's attention again. "Selena!" He cried. His voice annoyed Murtagh. "Come."

Selena sighed, dismounting and pulling Murtagh off of the horse.

"Mofer, tan we-"

"Leave him." Morzan growled, watching them from the veranda.

"Morzan!" Selena gasped. "You keep me away for three weeks and barely give me an hour with him? Please- he's our son. Please. He won't be a problem." Murtagh felt her squeeze his hand as he glanced up at her. She was brave, to face Morzan like that.

The constant crease between Morzan's brows deepened as a spark of fury glinted in his eyes. "I said no, Selena."

His mother smiled gently, not the smile Murtagh knew, but one that was persuasive. It didn't work. "He will not be in the way."

"He's a distraction to you."

The smile vanished. "Only because I never have the chance to see him. If you would only let-"

"Selena!" He roared, infuriated. His eyes burned red- the color of his dragon. Murtagh slid a little closer to his mother. "Come now!"

Selena knelt down to be eye-to-eye with her son. "I'll be back soon, Murtagh. Stay in the garden, alright? Nophel, can you-?"

"Absolutely." The man with the eagle nose agreed.

"Selena." Morzan's voice was dangerously low. "Now."

"But Mofer-"

"Murtagh." She was stern. "Stay here."

"Master Murtagh, would you like to help me?" Nophel asked, gesturing at a plot of flowers.

That did not help Murtagh's mood. His mother was being stolen from him- again.

"No." He replied sourly. "I want t' stay with my mofer."

"Murtagh." Selena whispered, urgent this time. "Please. We don't want to anger your father."

And that's when Murtagh awoke, blinking back the ache. It was a memory- a fuzzy one, when he was awake- that came alive and played before his eyes when sleep reached his exhausted system. Thorn wasn't awake- early morning then. The pale light coming from the window supported that fact.

But Murtagh didn't want to fall asleep again; he didn't want to relive his childhood. He just wanted to sleep, and he knew it wouldn't come to him.

Sitting up, he ran a hand through his dark hair, leaning over. He glanced towards the library, wondering if he could turn on a light without waking Halia. It was several days after his excursion into Uru'baen; he wasn't totally sure what all she had made with the material. But she seemed happier, if only slightly. He found it immensely difficult to tell her mood.

He leaned closer to the library, where she slept. He could hear the rhythm of her breathing- that was what caught his attention. It wasn't even; it wasn't regular. It came in almost inaudible gasps, like she couldn't get enough air. In a moment, Murtagh was on his feet, silencing his steps with a whispered spell as he crept towards her.

She was crying.

The sight was painful, invisible daggers stabbing Murtagh as he witnessed her misery. He had even seen her cry in her dreams before- he didn't remember it hurting him like it did. The streaks across her pink-tinted cheeks tainted her beauty- or did it make it all the more apparent? Did it show her for the broken, beautiful elf that she was?

A whimper escaped her lips. The sound shoved the daggers a little deeper into Murtagh; it hurt to see her so miserable. But why? Why did it hurt him? Why was she so hopeless? He had never hurt her; she was as safe as an elf could get in Uru'baen. True, she was still a prisoner, but she was freer than he was.

Another whimper.

Murtagh crept closer, only to notice that she was bleeding- her blood stained the sheets around her, even trickled down her neck. But what had caused it?

Her own fingernails.

Murtagh watched, horrified, as her right hand dragged itself across her arm, leaving trails of tattered skin and angry red blood, darker colored than her hair. Her expression crumpled into agony, though Murtagh knew if she was awake she would hardly blink. The skin was catching underneath her bloody fingertips, pulling the skin apart rather than cutting it.

Without thinking, he reached forward, his massive hands catching her delicate ones. She didn't wake, to his astonishment. Her frail form trembled like a leaf in the arctic winter air- doomed- and another whimper escaped her lips.

He hated doing it- he hated invading her privacy, her haven. But he had to know what caused her agony, what fueled her pain.

He recoiled as soon as their minds touched- her walls were still weak- overwhelmed by the searing, overwhelming, blinding, numbing, absolute _despair_. He kept to the edge of her conscience- if her dream could be called conscience- and watched her nightmare play before his eyes.

But it wasn't a nightmare. It was reality- a memory of another time, practically another millenia. He knew from the vividness, from the crispness of the setting, from the clarity. It lacked the gaping holes of realism that random dreams had, the unpredictability.

This had happened to Halia, and it made Murtagh's blood boil, because he knew what was coming.

"Don't go, please!" Halia pleaded, begging her companion.

He glared at her, merciless. "No."

Murtagh fit the description with the one she had mentioned him in the dragonhold- the one whose name she couldn't remember. He had blond hair, pulled back, and cold blue eyes. A sharp nose dominated his pale face, and his full lips were tight in disapproval. He was wiry, lean, and flexible, like a reed.

"Lithor, please, please don't leave me. We must stay- this is our duty! Our task! How can you leave when we are most needed?"

"It is nothing more than a minor threat- we have nothing to fear." He argued. "They are a small party, and unaware of our presence."

"When was the last time human magicians- Galbatorix's servants- came this deep into Du Wendelvarden? They came to tear down and destroy, and they do nothing else. This is no minor threat, Lithor. You must see that. Two are magicians, not ill-equipped ones either, and I doubt the traitor or any of his generals would send any common soldier for their task, especially going this deep into the wood. See the logic in my words, Lithor- please have an open ear. Do you understand that they could hurt our people? The wood? Our home? Do you see that they will not be merciful? Do you not-"

"I see, Halia." He hissed, clearly aggravated. Murtagh had been told the elves were relatively stoic- perhaps that was only in public. "I am not blind. You are blowing the situation out of proportion; we don't know their task or goal, and you assume the worst."

"It is the safest method; I will not take any risks. Not when my honor is at stake, and yours too."

"I am deeply sorry for your ignorance, Halia. But I must go now; after all, we have not completed our patrol."

"Lithor." Her tone dripped with pain and strained authority. "Think about what you're doing."

"I have." He snapped, his cold blue eyes burning on her. "And I am tired of your daydreaming, extreme carefulness, and rampant assumptions about every action I make and also that of the enemy. I know you have never intended to proclaim your affection for me, but know, Halia, that you have made it profoundly clear to me. You asked me if I was blind- rather, I have better sight than you. And you have made it abundantly obvious that you are exactly the type of person that I cannot see myself with for a long period of time. I am sorry your hopes were in vain, but I will not stay when the task of completing our patrol lies on my shoulders."

"The task of protecting Du Wendelvarden also lies on our shoulders." Halia whispered, agony in her eyes.

"I am sorry Halia. Goodbye, and may better fortune and sense find you."

He turned and loped from the glade, leaving a stunned Halia behind. She watched him until his golden hair vanished, until his soft footfalls could not be heard.

Murtagh expected her to cry, like she was in reality. But she did not- she took several shaky breaths, blinked violently, and turned to face the foe. But he noticed the signs of her despair- her fist, white and purple from the strength of her grasp, trembled; her posture had lost its elegant pride and straightness. Just before she crossed a creek, the glade still barely in view, she turned, her pale face combing the wood for any sign of Lithor.

"I hope you see your error, Lithor." She whispered, and bolted from the spot.

She passed through the wood like a wraith- slipping from shadow to shadow, unnoticed, unseen. But Murtagh watched as she ran- he couldn't help but notice the despair in her features, the hurt poorly masked by a hood. But the scene was changing, morphing- she still ran, but the wood blurred by, and her camouflage costume was replaced by comfortable-looking pants, a billowy shirt, and leather boots. Her hair streamed behind her like fire, and her face finally betrayed the depth of her pain.

The change didn't seem right- it must have been a time leap. Halia's hair was a touch shorter, her face eversoslightly rounder, her features more... unbelievable. More ethereal. And she was weeping, panic and horror across her beautiful face. The wood was more tame, more controlled; it lacked the think undergrowth it had around the border of Du Wendelvarden.

Her hand clutched a note, crumpling it in her grasp. She stumbled in her haste, though nothing blocked her way, and the words that poured from her mouth were tortured and hollow and undoubtedly hopeless.

"Mother!" She screamed, her green eyes scanning the wood, frantic. "Father!"

And she kept running, kept screaming, kept pouring out her soul for those people. Murtagh watched as she combed the woods, the roar of a nearby waterfall drowning out her woods.

And Murtagh knew when she found her quarry.

Relief like cold water on a burning summer day washed over her face, but vanished after a moment, frozen horror replacing it as she ran towards her parents.

"No!" She screamed, her face turning shades of blue and purple in her effort. "No!"

Two people, a man and a woman, stood on the brink of the waterfall, holding hands. Their position was leisurely- they could have been going on a walk through a garden.

"No!" Halia screamed, her eyes wildly watching the horror unfold before her.

And the two jumped, vanishing into the nothingness below them.

Frozen, Halia stared, her green eyes wide. She thawed just as quickly, sprinting to the edge, gripping the edge of the cliff with both hands, screaming her agony.

"They're gone, Halia." A rough voice tenderly began. "They're gone."

Muscled hands pulled her from the edge, wrapping her in a strong embrace as Halia curled up, defeated, sobbing.

"It was how they wanted it, Halia." The voice crooned, gentle. "This was how they wished it. You know they were tired of life."

Halia's sob racked her frame as she trembled in the elf's arms. "But why?" She gasped. "Why, Rhunon-elda?"

"They were pained, Halia. They loved you so much, but they could not muster the courage to live another day."

Halia snapped up, struggling to be free of Rhunon's arms. The elf was old, evident by the wisdom of the ages in her eyes. Her arms resembled a sword mans, knotted with muscle and sinew. "They- they could still be alive." She began, pulling away as she hastily wiped her eyes. "They could have made it-!"

"Halia." The steel in Rhunon's voice did not stop Halia as she scrambled to her feet. "They're gone, Halia. Feel it, Halia. They're gone."

Murtagh turned away- he did not want to watch as Halia fell apart even further. He did not know why it hurt so much to watch her agony, why he wanted to do nothing more than comfort her. The feeling was so foreign, so strange...

But the worst was yet to come.

Halia remained curled in the fetal position, but Rhunon and the forest vanished, along with the tears streaking across Halia's face. The agony seemed fixed in its position, like it would freeze as her permanent expression. Blood replaced the tears- blood and filth. Her clothing clung to her, glued to her by dried blood and mud, ripped beyond all hope of repair.

Reeling in horror, Murtagh immediately knew where she was. There was no doubt, no question.

She was in a dungeon.

"Hello, pretty." A crooning voice began. "Ready for today's fun?"

She did not reply, closing her eyes as the tears already began to slip down her scarred cheeks. Murtagh ran from the scene, pulling from her mind, not wanting to relive his own experience. Gasping, he returned to reality, intensely grateful for putting the silencing spell on himself, splashing cold water on his face.

Thorn was still asleep; but Murtagh had to leave. He had to get away from the madness- it was going to drive him to insanity. Murtagh decided to go to the kitchens, only to remember that no one would be there to cook for him. He could cook- it had been a while, since he and Eragon had been headed to the Varden, actually- yet he had never burned water, at least. But he wasn't hungry... but he needed _somethin_g to distract him from the nightmares, _anything_-

He could train.

Someone was always at the armory, always training, always needing help. Though Murtagh was reluctant to please the King, it was more for himself, anyway.

He left his rooms after leaving a note explaining why he had tied Halia's wrists together, and the blood covered sheets, editing out the part about him watching her dreams. The darkness of the palace halls comforted him, in a twisted way, and he slid from shadow to shadow to the armory courtyard.

"When will we visit our guest next?" He heard- the whisper of one of the bastard magicians. The bald one- Furdor.

"As soon as possible." Karth answered, his whispering voice gleeful.

"Night after tomorrow?"

"If we can- or would you mind splitting to cover more ground?"

A pause. "Fair enough. We must be quick."

"And careful. We cannot misstep; not at this point in the plan."

"Our pieces are set."

"The game in in motion."

Murtagh caught their quiet chuckles, peering around a corner to watch them. They had just returned from who-knows-where, though an idea of their location flitted in Murtagh's mind.

"When till we take the next one?"

"How thick are you?" The other teased. Murtagh suspected they were nearly drunk- those magicians were never so openly cheerful.

They laughed again, louder, passing Murtagh. Neither noticed him.

"How do you think the Devil's Spawn will take it?" One burped.

Both laughed as Murtagh narrowed his eyes, silently following them, training forgotten.

"Let's dare him to best us."

Both laughed.

"He won't succeed, no matter how many stores of energy he has. He can't dream of it- not when he learns we have _them_."

That confirmed Murtagh's suspicion- they had Eragon, undoubtedly. But where was Saphira? What had they done to them?

And in his heart Murtagh knew what atrocities they had committed, what pain his brother and sister dragon had endured, were enduring.

And for the first time, he wanted to help them.

One question sprouted in his mind, growing, flourishing, exploding: how?

* * *

Well...? Where do you think Saphira is? Even if you've never reviewed before, I'd love to know your theories!

See you Saturday! :D


	21. Chapter 21 Threats

Thanks so much for all the birthday wishes! I had a great day! And the reviews were excellent- you all are so enthusiastic! Thanks so much to Pimi for putting this story in a C2, and specifically, the best of the Inheritance Cycle! You all are so encouraging!

You all seem to think Saphira is at Morzan's Castle. Hmm... I think you find out Chapter... 24? I think? It's quite interesting for me to read your theories.

Oh, yes, and I'm thinking about writing a fanfic called _Descent into Madness_ (after I'm done with this one) where Eragon captures Murtagh and erases his memory to change his true name... and Murtagh goes insane. Does that sound like something you'd like to read?

Okay, here's the chapter that takes the game to a new level. Take a deep breath, strap yourselves in, and enjoy the ride. You should probably watch out for the ga-zillion foot drop at the end... just warning you.

Eragon's up next chappie!

**Chapter 21:** **Threats**

When Murtagh returned to his room several hours later, Kidasku was leaning against his bedpost, reading a book. The door to the library was shut, voices- plural- drifting to Murtagh's ears.

Kidasku smirked up at him. "That old nurse of yours made me let her in. She brought a few maids with her- I think they're working on whatever Halia's going to wear to the Gala. I can't be sure, but we're locked out.

"Actually, I haven't decided what I'm going to wear either, assuming you haven't. I'm thinking a green vest and black pants- it would go well enough. Technically I'm not invited, but who is the King to keep me out of his birthday party?" The werecat laughed mirthlessly, Murtagh hearing a note of contempt in his tone.

"The food is always supreme, even if the company is not. I don't have to talk to anyone, so that problem is solved. I guess I'll be modeling you."

Murtagh rolled his eyes, picking a book off of his dresser.

"The King has been particularly gleeful lately; I assume his plans for the war and the Gala are going well. Do you know anything?"

Murtagh knew too much. "He plans to send me to Dras-Leona soon."

"Oh, that's old news. I was there when he decided it. Those magicians were not particularly happy; evidently he gave them control of Helgrind, and they don't want you any nearer than necessary. I wonder why..."

Murtagh kept his eyes down on the book, though he did not comprehend the words scrawled across the page. For one, he couldn't read his own handwriting in that particular note, and secondly, his nagging suspicion was growing in his mind. Kidasku gave him an odd look- Murtagh caught it from the corner of his eye.

"You know something I don't, don't you?" The werecat began, his voice almost a hiss.

Murtagh rolled his eyes again as laughter leaked through the door- he heard Halia's laughter, and it almost put a smile on his face.

"Tell me, please?" The werecat crooned, crawling towards him.

"No, Kidasku. It is nothing more than a theory."

"Then it won't hurt if you tell me."

Murtagh sighed but did not let up.

"This may be one of our chances to get me out of Uru'baen, you know." Kidasku argued. "I need to know _everything_ of note."

As much as Murtagh wanted the King and his magicians to suffer, as they would if the Varden found out where Eragon was, he did not want either side to gain total control over his brother. If the Varden found him, Murtagh undoubtedly would be sent to capture him- again. And that never went well. But if the King realized the truth of what the magicians were doing, (Murtagh doubted he did, since his catastrophic fit had been over where Eragon was) or ordered Eragon to Uru'baen... Murtagh shuddered at the thought.

That would be another living nightmare for both brothers.

Which gave him the final option of rescuing Eragon for himself. But where would he take him? How could he hide it from the King?

"Please, Murtagh?" Kidasku pleaded

"No. You know more than enough to help the Varden."

Another set of giggles leaked through the door- Murtagh realized the pain he would experience if any of those gossiping maids heard him.

_Shut it._ He told Kidasku, glaring. _We can't let them hear_.

_They're distracted._

_One can never be too careful._

"Anyway, all of the nobles are such poor company. All unoriginal and selfish- ugh." The werecat shuddered, a faint smile flickering across his face. "That's why I like it here- you and Halia are so much more _interesting_. We werecats have excellent taste, you know."

Murtagh knew too well.

"I don't mind the dragonhold either, as long as Shruikan's in a pleasant mood and Thorn doesn't step on me."

Werecats and their grudges!

"And I have to admit that the throne room can get interesting, especially when the King goes on his rants."

Murtagh violently disagreed- the King's rants were the worst.

Kidasku eyed him carefully, choosing his next words delicately. "I was there when those Twins first brought you from the Battle of Farthen Dur; I remember the drug hadn't totally worn off-"

Murtagh spun around, drawing Zar'roc instinctively in his fury. His glare alone rightfully would have sliced the werecat into a thousand cubes. "You will _never_ speak of that again. Never." He growled, his voice deadly quiet. Morzan, when he was angry, would shout and wave, break things, and throw a tantrum. Not Murtagh, though he had broken things before.

Kidasku nodded solemnly, biting his lip. His expression suddenly lifted. "I remember now- I was going to ask you what you planned on wearing to the Gala. I think a green vest would look nice on me, since I'll be in this uncomfortable human form, perhaps with black pants. Do you agree?"

Murtagh's fury had not worn off, but the absurdity of the question stunned him. "Do you think I care?"

"Not at all. I was merely asking your opinion."

"My opinion doesn't matter."

"It does to me." Kidasku protested. "Who else am I to ask? Thorn can't hardly tell one color from another, and Shruikan doesn't speak to me. I already asked Halia- she was polite, and actually answered- and that leaves you. I'm not going to start a conversation like that to just anyone in this castle.

"Besides, other people care about your opinion. Those magicians- the fat ones- they care. They care so much I wonder why. Haven't you noticed how they cling to your every word? How they listen with rapt attention whenever you actually speak- mind you, that isn't very often. And I think Halia cares too, though don't tell her I said that. She's been reading your library, you know. She's studied your notes too, even the parts that are illegible. It's rather hilarious to watch her try to decipher your handwriting- it's atrocious, you know. She can get so focused, like when she tries to remember magic."

Murtagh narrowed his eyes. "She doesn't remember the Ancient Language?"

"Well, she can speak it, but actually doing magic isn't working so well for her. Like that part of her mind is still lost with everything else she can't remember. It's really sad, when you think of it. And she's trying so _hard._" The werecat shook his head. "But she sounds like she's enjoying herself now."

Murtagh could hear her laughter again- it sent a shock down his spine, tingling along his scar. He didn't know _why_- the answer slipped beyond his grasp. The maids giggled again, their noise grating on his ears compared to Halia's.

"All right, all right." Nannie Fae was saying. "We all have duties, ladies. Come along, now. Quickly, before all of you get a scolding. Come!"

The door opened, revealing no less than five maids- Murtagh glared at them. Nannie Fae, though, received the brunt of his ferocious stare.

"Finally!" Kidasku muttered to no one in particular.

The maids fell silent as they filed past Murtagh, his arms folded across his chest.

"Don't give me that look." Nannie Fae reprimanded him, just like she had when he was two. "We're leaving now, so get over yourself. Halia needed the help."

Murtagh sensed something in her eyes, in her stare. It held more meaning than the nurse should have had, like she was silently trying to tell him something. Murtagh wasn't so good at translating female body language. Before he had the chance to ask, she vanished, and he turned to Halia.

A green dress was draped over her arm, made from the same fabric he had bought. But her expression demanded his attention.

She was furious.

Green eyes blazing, she spun around and immediately folded the dress into a neat pile, setting it with her other sewing supplies. Her movements were uncharacteristically jerky and forceful; her hands were clenched into red and white fists, shaking.

"Halia?" Kidasku asked. "Was it that bad?"

Murtagh thought she had been enjoying herself, but evidently...

She did not reply, turning her back to the confused males and facing the bookshelf, picking something off of it. Murtagh felt the castle shudder- Shruikan or Thorn, or both, were stomping around the dragonhold.

_What is going on?_ Thorn asked. _Shruikan is suddenly very frustrated._

_Halia's angry and we don't know why._ Murtagh explained.

_Please make her explain- Shruikan is about to roar, and I don't want the King coming here._

That motivated Murtagh to step forward, taking a determined stride towards her. "Halia, explain yourself." Even to himself, he sounded demanding, angry.

Her frail shoulders, thin, shook with fury as she took a deep breath. When she spun around to face them, a stoic mask had replaced her burning look, and she stood as still as a statue.

"What did they do to you?" Murtagh repeated, softer. He hadn't put gentleness into his tone in so long, he was surprised it even worked.

And her mask slipped, falling invisibly to the floor. Rage sprang across her face, and Murtagh reeled internally, wondering if he had done something wrong- if she knew he had seen her dreams.

"What did they do?" She hissed. "Where should I begin? As if torturing me with fire and magic wasn't enough!"

Murtagh and Kidasku stared at her, and then each other, incredulously. Neither understood.

"They know no bounds! I swear I'll kill them myself, ship their bodies to- to-" Her expression faltered as she struggled to remember, and then that emotion mixed with her fury, creating a catastrophic mix.

"Who?" Murtagh repeated, his hand instinctively resting on Zar'roc.

"Those magicians!" Halia shrieked, and Murtagh was surprised she didn't add a string of profanities with her announcement. "They sent those gossiping, prying, inconsiderate, selfish, shallow _maids_-" She spat out the word- "To _spy_ on _me_. I saw it in their minds- they bribed them with money and jewels and a higher status- as if that can give them happiness! As if they haven't already had their share of my blood! Do they feel compelled to banish my sanity? Why don't they simply kill me? _That_ would release my mind, surely.

"What do they want from me?" She asked- Murtagh figured the question was rhetorical. "They already stole my memories- what else could they want? What else do I have that has demanded their attention? What of me that appeals so much to their twisted minds?"

The rage drained out of her face, replaced by utter hopelessness. Her exquisite eyes took a hollow look, like that of a starving child, and she slipped to the floor, her head in her hands.

In the dragonhold, Shruikan roared his fury, the sound rumbling through the castle. A higher pitched wail- Thorn- joined in the symphony. The King was going to be furious.

"Halia." Murtagh began, looking at her curled form. She didn't respond.

He took three determined strides towards her and crouched not a foot from where she sat. She smelled faintly of spring- Murtagh shoved the thought away and watched her.

"Halia."

She finally faced him, her eyes filled with nothingness. It stabbed Murtagh through, to see her so miserable; and still, he did not know why.

"When I was captured after the Battle of Farthen Dur by the Twins, I was tortured just like you. I understand; Shruikan understands. I'm sure Arya understands; Eragon-" He choked out the name- "and I rescued her from Durza while we were on our way to the Varden. But you're safe here, as ironic as that may sound; the King has sworn both Karth, Furdor and I to not kill each other, though we try every other day."

A flicker of amusement almost crossed her face; it lost heart half way and faltered back.

"They replaced the Twins, Karth and Furdor's predecessors, who were killed at the Battle of the Burning Plains." Murtagh edited out that his own cousin had killed them. "The Twins tortured me; everyone even slightly tied to them is my sworn enemy. Do not fear Karth or Furdor; they will be dead before they touch you again. Shruikan, Thorn, Kidasku and I will protect you. Remember that."

"You can't always protect me, Murtagh. The King's hold is too strong on you."

The truth stung like alcohol poured on a fresh wound.

"But I am Karth and Furdor's superior- if I ordered them to do something, they by law would have to do it." Murtagh took a breath, unsure of whether or not to reveal the second part, the ultimatum in the situation. "And I know where their hideout is; I know where they torture their victims. It's not in this city; and my status give me full right to go there and take whoever I please.

"You're safe, Halia. I will not ask you to trust me, but I won't stand aside and let them hurt you."

Suddenly embarrassed, Murtagh turned and left the room, heading out the door. But he managed to hear Kidasku say something about a speech; he didn't wait for Halia's answer. What was wrong with him? Why did she even matter to him?

And a Black Letter interrupted him.

As he hurried around a corner, it zipped around the same one, punching Murtagh in the gut. More poking, but all the same. Cursing, Murtagh opened it to see the King's wet scrawl, the red ink glittering against the black page. It read:

My Rider-

You are to attend the Gala and act like a gentleman.

You are to bring your elf, and she is to be attired properly.

You are to leave for Dras-Leona three days after the Gala. Your duty there will not be to command the forces, but to kill as many of the Varden as possible, should there be a battle. If Eragon appears, you must capture him. I do not need to remind you of your vows.

You have my permission to watch the Lords Karth and Furdor. Their recent auras have interested me; I do not want to ruin the suspence by simply pulling the news from their minds. Find me some clues.

Your loving Lord, the King of Alagaesia, Rider of Javornask and Shruikan, the Father of the People, the Master of Vroengarg and the Southern Islands, High Priest of Helgrind,

_Galbatorix_

Fury as hot as Shruikan's boiled within Murtagh's chest; fury for everything that the King had done to him, fury for everything Thorn had to withstand, fury for the century of Shruikan's pain, fury for the uncountable eldunari the King had under his dictator-like grasp, fury for all the lives the King had taken-

And fury that he, Murtagh, couldn't do anything about it.

_Save us, then._ Sicorro murmured after weeks of silence. Healing Halia had drained him of strength.

Murtagh ground his teeth in frustration, because he had absolutely no way of doing that.

_Find the Rock of Kuthain. _His eldunari murmured, the faint voices of trapped souls. _Save us; save yourself._

Finding the Rock wasn't the issue- Murtagh already knew where it was. Anyone who was drowning in the King's game of war knew where the Rock was. Opening it, though, was an entirely different matter- and Murtagh didn't even know how it could help. At one point someone had mentioned a name, but Murtagh's name certainly wasn't any kind of help.

Why? The answer stood glaring down at Murtagh with cold, unfeeling eyes, the symbol of the King's power and authority.

Because the Rock of Kuthain was Galbatorix's freezing throne.


	22. Chapter 22 Descent

I wasn't planning on updating, but your reviews make me happy, and this week is promising to be most *%&# worst of my life. So please, for my sanity, tell me what you think of it. I love that you all loved the last chapter. This one doesn't have so much action, but... it's still very important.

So... yeah. Please make my day, my week, better. The most reviews, the more often I'll update. Let's say for every ten I'll update a day earlier- that shouldn't be too hard, right? Right? Please, flame me if you want too. Just leave me a note. Please. I probably sound so pitiful...

Eragon lovers, this is for you. Murtagh fans... you'll have to wait. The next chappie is Thorn's POV.

**Chapter 22: Descent**

Eragon blinked at the ceiling above him; the stars were beautiful. They smiled at him like diamonds... but diamonds didn't smile. Confusion built in his mind; Helgrind's roof was stone- he couldn't see the sky.

He blinked, and the stars disappeared.

The magicians were busy with another prisoner- this time, they had the courtesy to move them, so the others didn't have to listen to the screams- and that rare gem of empty time gave Eragon the opportunity to think clearly.

He was too weak to escape; they had drained him of more energy than what it took to carry Sloan down the very same, god-forsaken rock. But surely the Varden would come for him; he had told Arya where he was, anyway. She would come, just like she had come to find him before.

Perhaps.

The mission was so difficult; he knew it would be foolhardy. Insane, but necessary. He had to leave; he had to find Saphira.

Which meant attacking Uru'baen.

He shuddered at the thought of how many lives it would require, but if it killed him, he would find her, and he would save her. He had too. It was a need, a compelling force that groaned against his chains and against his weakness. She needed him as much as he needed her; what had Galbatorix done to her?

That was the King's name- right? Eragon's thoughts stumbled; he blamed it on exhaustion. Aye- Galbatorix. That was the traitor's name. And Murtagh was his right hand; Thorn was Murtagh's dragon, and Shruikan was forced to become Galbatorix's dragon.

And Saphira was there, among that wicked company.

Another shudder raced down his spine.

She was stronger than he was; she could defend herself against them... surely. She had dragon magic, untamable, uncontrollable; unpredictable; she could withstand any pain, because she was a Daughter of the Sky. As she had once said, not a pigeon hiding from a hunting hawk.

She could withstand.

He hoped.

But the thought of her bullied, broken, bleeding, beautiful form tore him to pieces; she did not deserve that fate! Murtagh did- no, the magicians did; they were far more evil than Murtagh had ever been. And that thought was absolutely frightening- and to know that the King was their lord, was even more powerful than they...

Eragon bit back a whimper of hopelessness, wrestling it down, further and further into the depths of his mind. Locking it away, he shoved it in a black box, blacker than night, and burned the iron bars till they were red hot. He smiled as the emotion growled at him, powerless.

But as soon as he turned his back, it snarled at him, whispering his fears in his ears, reminding him of the impossible task before him...

And flowers started crawling over his hands, warm and prickly; they were golden lilies, and a bright light in the darkness.

He blinked and they were gone.

Sweet song filled his ears; he knew the lyrics, but his throat was so dry he couldn't sing along with the soothing melody. He had heard it in Ellesmera; he closed his eyes and listened to it take him far away, away from pain, from hurt, from Helgrind... Oromis had hummed the tune while they practiced the Rigmar; images of the lyrics had floated through his mind, sent by Glaedr... Arya had even sang that perfect song, a rare smile upon her lips...

She had smiled at him...

And the door to the chamber crashed open, and the song vanished like whispers caught by a wind. The magicians were strangely silent, but their prisoner was not.

"What if he finds you?" The prisoner snarled, the adult voice mocking them. Purple flames danced around the person, like he was sustaining magic, and the magicians made no attempt to silence him. "He'll kill you, no matter what he's vowed. He'll find a loophole- he always has. I'm sure he's working on it right now; he's not as blind as you think. He's probably already uncovered your plans and is prepared to thwart them. He's the Devil's Son, anyway. Did you think he'd be the thick-headed ass you had hoped for?"

Who were they talking about?

"No, no. You'll be dead in a week, I'm guessing, and there's little you can do about it save begging at his feet for forgiveness. He won't give it, of course. That's why the King likes him more than you; he's more cunning, more... devilish. He's part dragon, after all."

The bold prisoner laughed, the peals echoing in the chamber like it was a joke. But that answered Eragon's question- they were discussing Murtagh, undoubtedly.

"And the King? What if the Demon's Spawn tells him, as unlikely as it may seem? He hates you as much as he hates the King; oh, he's love to turn you in. And will the King be merciful?" More laughter. "Of course not. Why would he do such a thing? Oh, he'll torture you- no, he'll let Murtagh torture you, and won't that be a pleasant experience?" Again with the laughter- Eragon was beginning to wonder if the prisoner was insane. "He'll give you more pain than you've ever inflicted; he'll pay twice what you've given him."

There was an unusual pause, a moment of careful suspense.

"But the game is more complicated than ever before." The prisoner crooned. "Oh yes; he'll kill you for tormenting his guest, and you both know how much blood there will be. Or perhaps he'll take your true names and let you hurt yourselves... you know, I think that would be the best outcome of this."

More maniac laughter.

"Oh, I'm causing you pain, am I? Is your fear suddenly closer to reality than you had thought? Oh, you'll know pain. You'll know more pain than you could ever dream of, when he gets his hands on you. Furdor, what do you think about eating off your own limbs? I'm sure you'd be delicious. And what about you, Karth? How about sawing off your own neck?"

"Silence!" Fat roared, his voice echoing with the prisoner's gleeful laughter. "You shall be quiet!"

"Really?" The captive spat. "What are you going to do to me, Karth? Burn me, scald me, brand me? You magic doesn't stay; my pain is temporary uncomfortableness. Yours, however..."

More laughter.

Eragon heard the spell rolling off of Fat's pink lips; he shuddered, knowing what he planned. The orange magic cut through the violet magic without a problem... at first. The prisoner twitched and writhed- Eragon could see the shadows on the ceiling- but after a moment, the purple flames subdued the orange ones, and the prisoner's laughter started yet again.

"You can't hurt me." He mocked them, already recovered from the torture. Eragon didn't understand. He wasn't even sure where his confusion was.

"We'll see- in a few days, you'll be in so much pain you won't be able to breathe." Karth snapped.

"Good luck with that. I think you'll have bigger problems on your hands by then." The prisoner chuckled. "Oh yes. Much bigger problems than me.

"How does Murtagh's Revenge sound? Exhilarating, isn't it? I can feel your pulses beating away, drums! Oh, you're terrified of him. Wonderful. He sounds like someone I would like to meet. Unafraid of pain, willing to die for whatever he feels deserves his blood. I would assume that's mostly Thorn... oh? Someone else, perhaps? You have every reason to fear her too. When she leaves, the entire elven nation will be upon you. I've only met thirteen elves in my life and none of them are to be handled lightly. Oh- what about Shruikan? I'm sure you'll survive an encounter with him. We all know his fury is quite formidable."

Furdor growled, fixed in place by the prisoner's words, but wanting to leave. Eragon could tell by how he would get a few steps closer to the doorway and turn around. Karth stood frozen, immobile.

"One thing I've learned from my vast experience is that an angry dragon is not someone you want on your side. Rather, I'd run. Imagine Thorn, Shruikan, and Saphira all upon you at once- I'd like to see that. I'd like to see that very much. Very, very much." More laughter. "Your pain would be my joy, and the joy of every other soul trapped beneath this rock. There's no where you could hide to escape them; there's no place you could go to save yourself. Not even the King himself could help you; then again, it sounds like something he'd enjoy watching in his Arena. Oh yes... doesn't that sound excellent?"

Karth's voice was low and deadly. "We may not be able to harm you physically- yet!- but we can hurt others here."

"Oh yes, hurt the others. Go ahead. All it means is that your pain will be doubled, for against Murtagh alone you will be found out, and he will punish you as he deems fit. And as you've thought, he is not merciful. Oh yes... isn't pain a wonderful thing? Isn't it beautiful?

"A few days, I suppose. That is all it will take for Murtagh to hunt you down, and I do hope he'll let me watch. I'd enjoy that very, _very_, much."

Another roar, and Karth sprang forward, profanities on his lips; Furdor lept after him and yanked him back, dragging him from the room.

The prisoner's laughter followed them out and wandered among Eragon's mind as he drifted into uneasy sleep.

He thought of flowers, music, and innocent laughter, embracing the painless imagery of his dreams.


	23. Chapter 23 The Gala

You all rose to the challenge and beyond! 12 reviews for the last chapter, and my offer still stands: 10 reviews and I will update sooner. :) Thanks to , TheLunyOne, Dragonwagon, Midnite Aussie, SimplySupreme, Lobo de Fuego, BronzeButterfly 18, Owltalon, Zeze123, Cara Amnell, Aren, and Inheritancefnatic! You all are AWESOME, and you've made my week so much better. Thank you so much. I was going to update tomorrow... but with 12, I wasn't going to make ya'll wait.

My apologies, though: the _nex_t chapter is in Thorn's POV. I had to rearrange my chapters because the flow was off; but it's really the next chapter this time! Anyway, this is the Gala scenes... and it's the longest chapter so far. Enjoy! :)

**Chapter 23: The Gala**

Murtagh angrily straightened his belt; it kept sliding to the left because of Zar'roc. He wouldn't have minded breaking the sword, after all- if only he knew how!- but he would have to control his temper for the next few hours. He felt it rapidly deteriorating, and he hadn't seen a single noble-person yet.

The Gala always tried his temper. Kidasku's chattering wasn't helping the situation.

"I do rather like this vest." The werecat was saying. "It matches my fur quite well- I guess it's hair, now. Too bad no one takes cats seriously anymore; this human form is rather uncomfortable, I must admit. What do you _do_ with this hair of yours? All my fur goes to the top of my head rather than being evenly spread throughout this pathetic thing you call skin."

Murtagh had to admit that Kidasku did have a mop of hair- a wild, tangled mess of orange and browns and reds. It was the color of his fur, whenever he was an actual cat.

"Halia, are you ready yet?" He complained.

Murtagh rolled his eyes- she had only been in there for a minute.

"Yes." Her muffled voice wafted through the door. Murtagh heard the door whine open, but didn't turn; his embarrassment over his speech from the day before had not vanished. It shadowed his every move, haunted his stray thoughts, and challenged his vows.

But that wouldn't stop him from trying.

"I must admit, Halia, you look lovely. But do something with your hair- it's always down, and this is a special occasion."

"By whose definition?" Murtagh muttered.

"At least try to enjoy yourself." Kidasku replied, ignoring Murtagh. "The food is excellent, you have to admit."

"You were the one complaining about it not long ago." Murtagh reminded him.

"Only the company is bad."

"And the company is only seventy-five percent of the evening."

"Pessimist." Kidasku sighed.

A clear, ringing bell sounded through the castle, echoing along the quiet corridors. Applause followed the bell- the doors to the Gala had opened.

_Let the nightmare begin_. Murtagh thought.

Thorn had no reply- he didn't have to attend.

"Please, Halia?" Kidasku crooned. "Something, pretty please?"

"You're unbelievable."

Murtagh agreed.

"Even a little braid?"

Annoying werecat.

Murtagh turned and threw on his stoic mask to hide his shock- shock and pleasant surprise. Kidasku's rendering of 'you look lovely' did not even begin to describe Halia's appearance; it failed as badly as the King finding a decent wife.

The green dress flattered her figure and eyes- always, her eyes managed to stun him. They seemed even brighter now, compared to the pale green of the dress. And she seemed healthier too; not as thin, not as scrawny. Her cheeks boasted a pink hue, and her lips were only a few shades lighter than her hair, cascading around her shoulders. And Kidasku thought she could improve her looks? Murtagh blinked and decided that the werecat was passing the bounds of sanity.

"It's been so long..." Halia murmured, one finger absentmindedly twirling a strand of her hair. "A braid, you say? Or something more extravagant? Or elegant?"

"It's your hair- your choice." Kidasku shrugged. Ironic that he would say that.

"Or something that will surprise the boys and girls?" She smirked.

"Excellent plan."

Closing her eyes- Murtagh was half pleased that she did, since it released him from their potency, and half wished she'd keep them open because of their beauty- Halia's fingers started at her forehead, blurring in her speed. Occasionally she'd falter, stop, and unwind the strands, forgetting what to do next, but a moment of stillness would pass and she'd continue.

In the end, her flaming hair was braided in not three, not four, but five sections, running from her scull to her waist. Murtagh imagined the ladies of the court attempting to reduplicate the style and failing miserably- the thought encouraged him.

But her sleeves- long and open, he thought they'd get in the way- sparked inspiration. As Kidasku praised her on remembering how to complete such a hair style, Murtagh rummaged through his dresser, pulling out a dagger. Surely she had seen it before, since all of his clothing was folded and he never did the laundry, and he wondered why she hadn't taken it before.

"Here." Murtagh began, handing it to her. "Will it fit in your sleeve?"

"Perfectly." She answered, cinching the small belt around her forearm. Murtagh could read surprise and perhaps confusion in her face- she hadn't expected him to arm her, surely.

One step towards earning her trust.

Another round of applause met their ears, ringing through the castle.

Murtagh sighed and offered Halia his arm; she took it, her touch as gentle as satin, and they headed towards the Gala. The hallways became more and more crowded as they proceeded; Murtagh glared at everyone who stared. Kidasku's constant chatter dulled to a whisper; as he had said, he did not speak to noble people, and few had ever heard his voice.

The murmur of voices swelled into a roar the closer they came, the sound touched here and there by the orchestra. But the noise did nothing but rile Murtagh's nerves; he wanted nothing more than to run, to escape, or to simply kill the King. Turning the final corner, Murtagh paused, some ten feet from the door.

"Welcome to the nightmare of Galbatorix's court." He muttered, half to Halia, half to himself. She straightened a little taller- prouder. She was certainly on the mend.

And they were in.

The King left nothing unattended; not a detail was overlooked. The grass of the courtyard was perfectly green, though getting trampled; the tables were set perfectly; the décor reflected the King's style. The music was both uplifting and majestic, and the dancers knew their part well. Smelling food, Kidasku drifted from them, and though Murtagh did enjoy the scent, and the food, he had only one thought.

His nightmares were one hell, and this was another.

He barely noted the announcer, listing off the names of everyone who entered, but he did notice the sudden interest in them. It was like a thousand greedy eyes turned little lights on them- particularly Halia. He had promised to protect her, and he planned to do just that. The castle hated him as it was- he glared back, and many turned away.

_Shruikan said Halia is shocked_. Thorn began. _She is shocked that there are so many noble people, and that she hasn't seen the King yet. And that they all hate you._

_Why does that surprise her?_

_ Because it means that no one likes you, anywhere._ Thorn guessed. _But I think she thinks you're her friend. She's not running away or anything. _

_ Where would she run too?_

_ I don't know. She could find someone with decent motives here, somewhere. They would help her. _

_ Or use her._

_ But she's not running. She's staying with you. I think she trusts you._

Murtagh half wanted to believe him, but another part of him hoped he was joking- any connection to him, in the end, would not help her at all.

The feeling of Halia stiffening next to him snapped him out of his thoughts- her hand instinctively tightened on his wrist. She stood up taller, a little straighter, no longer the frightened, broken thing Murtagh had been given.

Karth and Furdor, a mere thirty feet away, stared at them, greed written across their faces. They were not looking at Murtagh, obviously, but Halia.

The same restless anger stirred in Murtagh's chest; he glared, instinctively stepping in front of her.

They glared back, but what surprised Murtagh was their eyes, and their auras. He couldn't read them- was that mischief? Or were they planning to release all Hell? He suspected both.

_Move!_ Shruikan barked, his mind intruding Murtagh's. _Leave! Galbatorix is coming closer to you! Get her out of there!_

Murtagh nudged Halia away, knowing the magicians were still staring. Then again, everyone was staring. Murtagh hadn't had so many eyes on him since the King announced him as the next Dragon Rider, or since Gil'ead. And then the thunderous applause Murtagh had expected broke out, roaring across the swelling crowd- not for him.

It was for the King.

He was dressed in his best, blue and black, and his latest mistress was on his arm, smiling sweetly. A wide, fatherly expression donned his face; the same one, Murtagh remembered, that had convinced him to join the Empire so many years ago. It was the look of a blue-eyed snake; a viper, too careful to strike quite yet.

The orchestra began a lively tune, and the King laughed and came down the stairs, twirling his mistress into a dance. Soon enough, the majority of the guests were at the dance floor; Murtagh and Halia, of course, were not. He refused to humiliate her like that. Rather, they tried to stay in the shadows, an impossible task, because the blinking lights that were the noblemen's eyes followed them wherever they went.

Kidasku flitted about as he pleased, eating mostly, and occasionally chatting with a noble-person. Their expressions afterwards revealed that he was actually insulting them.

Kidasku was never talented at making friends.

"I must admit, the crowd this year is smaller compared to the past." He began, using a sharp fingernail to pick his teeth. "I'm not sure if that is good or bad. He's probably assuming this is the pre-party for his victory event."

That wasn't a pleasant thought.

"And I was so sure that he'd postpone it- oh! More people to talk too! How exciting!" The distracted werecat hurried off; Murtagh couldn't find him in the crowd.

_He's headed towards Karth and Furdor_. Thorn told him- he had an aerial view. _And the King is dancing. And Shruikan says Halia is horrified. _

_ By what?_

She didn't look horrified- rather, her bright eyes scanned the room, absorbing the sights and sounds and people. When was the last time she had even been outside? Murtagh felt a twinge of guilt- she didn't deserve to be locked up in the rooms.

_Everything. _

Murtagh sighed; Halia barely glanced up at him. _Explain, Thorn. _

_ The people... she's so angry at them and so terrified... she's still haunted by what those magicians did to her, though she doesn't look like it. I feel so sad for her, Murtagh. She's so afraid on the inside- but I'm glad you gave her that dagger. Shruikan's glad too. He thinks that if she has the chance, she should kill the King. _

_ NO!_ The thought roared through Murtagh's mind; he glanced up and glared at Thorn, who hung in the sky like a ruby. Thorn, however, was ready for it.

And both understood Murtagh's anger perfectly well.

They were going to kill the King, because he had wards that would attack and slaughter whoever ended up destroying him. They were going to kill the King, because if he died, the Varden would kill them anyway. They were going to kill the King, because Eragon and Saphira couldn't- the dragons couldn't go extinct, and that relied on Saphira. They were going to kill the King, because perhaps then the world would remember them for something other than the atrocities they had done.

They were going to kill the King, because he had killed them- he had killed their freedom.

And that would be their revenge- the only revenge they would get.

They had their revenge for the world hating them when they defeated Eragon. They had their revenge for all the taunting insults when they appeared, more powerful than anyone else at the battle, when everyone realized that they could kill them all, down to the last man.

And they hated it.

They had not wanted that kind of revenge- not that. They would not be remembered for their crimes against humanity.

And therefore, they were going to kill the only person to be more evil than they were.

**They** were going to kill the King- as long as they beat Shruikan to it.

_She's not strong enough to kill the King._ Murtagh argued. _Does she know that? _

_ Yes- I think so. But will that stop her from trying?_

Murtagh couldn't answer the question, deciding instead to keep a closer eye on her. But a noblewoman- Murtagh guessed she was around his age- stepped towards them, braver than her friends giggling behind her.

"My Lord."

Murtagh didn't reply, staring at her coldly. He gave her gossiping friends a glare for good measure.

"We were wondering if your guest would be willing to sit with us for a spell."

For a spell- this one was witty enough to use a pun. She was a magician, undoubtedly. But another realization struck Murtagh- no one else knew Halia's name. The girl seemed honest enough- her mind was poorly defended- and Murtagh turned his attention to the dragons above him.

_Well?_

Shruikan sighed. _If she wants too; I'll keep an eye on her. _

_ Thorn? _

_ This will be interesting._ The Red dragon laughed.

Murtagh turned to Halia, raising one eyebrow to ask her the silent question. Her reply was easy enough to read- a tilt of her head, carefulness in her eyes- and Murtagh's nod completed that conversation.

The magician noblewoman, he was sure, was memorizing each of their movements.

Halia gave a shallow curtsey, introducing herself in the Ancient Language. Murtagh smiled, though not externally- she played a crafty game. All she had to do to stay safe was appear innocent when necessary, and intimidate possible threats. The young magician before him only knew three words of the sentence.

The two joined the others at the table- they all stared with hungry, greedy eyes. But Halia stood out from their crowding- her hair, obviously, and her simplicity. They wore revealing dresses weighed down by jewels and precious stones, and their hair was laced with gold and pearls. Halia needed none of that to stun whoever saw her.

Murtagh caught the drift of their conversation- they were attacking her with questions. He could imagine the gossip that would be flying through the castle the next day- this was, after all, Halia's first public appearance.

And hopefully her last.

Each moment ticked by, dragging, boring, irritating. The seconds stretched into minutes, the minutes into hours; Murtagh wondered how long the Hell could last. He stood in the shadows, as he usually did in public; silent and listening, eyes absorbing the people and their thoughts.

Halia's table was falling apart- the company, at least. Many had been asked by so-and-so to dance, and so their numbers had dwindled and swelled unpredicatbly.

And Murtagh watched.

The King, of course, was the nucleus of the thriving Gala. Whenever he danced, they cleared more than enough room for him; whenever he'd meander to the banquet tables, people would praise him for his excellent taste. Whenever he did anything, they basked in his glory- Murtagh wished he could show them who he really was. The King could have killed someone, and only applause would have answered his murder.

"Having fun, are we?" Kidasku asked. His chin dripped purple wine. "Did I tell you that the food is excellent? I think the wine is from the King's personal store- you should try some."

Murtagh didn't answer- Kidasku already knew he wouldn't have any.

"The guests are quite pleased, even if they were hoping for one of the King's treats. You know; the ones he saves for the end. Perhaps he will still have one... but it is going on one in the morning."

No wonder Murtagh was getting so tired.

"I'm surprised you let Halia spend her time with those ladies."

Murtagh gave that table a quick glare- the number of women there had swelled, and Halia sat in the middle of them.

A glass of wine was in her hand.

Murtagh suspected mischief, narrowing his eyes.

_They're trying to make her drunk._ Shruikan explained, laughter in his tone. _Their plan is backstabbing them. Elves cannot become intoxicated, and all of them are._

It was true. A few were knocked out, one laid in the trampled grass, snoring, and two others held their heads in their hands- headaches, undoubtedly.

Halia smiled at them sweetly, perfectly in her right mind.

A flicker of a smile came across Murtagh's face- here was a dove among vipers; but which had the brains of the hunter?

"My good nobles of Alagaesia!" The King thundered, the assembly falling silent at his sweet rhetoric- and he was only a sentence into his speech. "My faithful followers and friends, my kin, my brothers and sisters, my children! No man has ever been blessed by such pleasant company or such loyal supporters." More applause. "I am pleased to tell you that today is, as it has always been, my birthday. I will not tell you my age-" Laughter, this time- "- But I can confidently tell you that by next year on this day, peace will be restored to our magnificent land!"

Murtagh keenly noted that he didn't specify to which side.

"Have you all been enjoying yourselves?"

More applause, laughter, and cheers. Murtagh wanted to cut off their hands and rip out their tongues, because it was all empty words, empty promises- they all lived empty lives.

"Good, good." The King smiled- Murtagh shuddered as a noblewoman swooned.

"I have a surprise for all of you- a treat, if you will." He paused as the crowd kept clapping, and a stone dropped into Murtagh's stomach- his smile was far too sweet, far too mischievous... "I must admit, though, I haven't informed the one who will performing for us that she is asked to do so. Forgive me, Lady Halia. But would you do us the honor of a song or two?"

Stunned, Murtagh couldn't move.

And then Halia turned to him.

Her eyes were wild with terror, with fear, with shock. It was like someone had shot Murtagh in the gut- he couldn't breathe, couldn't see past her face, so full of fear-

Shruikan changed that.

His roar shattered the delicate glasses, popped ear drums, sent the guests writhing on the ground, hands clamped over their bleeding ears. It held all the fury of a hundred years, louder than ever before- Murtagh could see a split climbing up the castle's side-

Galbatorix cut off the roar with a muttered word, a violent glare on his face.

But Murtagh was out of his trance, sliding from shadow to shadow to stand closer to Halia. A question, hopeless, was written across her face: Must I?

It tore Murtagh apart to nod, to tell her that she really had no choice.

"Will you come to the stage, madam?" The King crooned, his sweet voice settling his guests' frazzled nerves.

Halia glided through the crowd, silent, her head held high. Murmurs rippled from person to person- Murtagh gritted his teeth and followed her along the perimeter, deciding that she wouldn't leave his sight. The King offered her a hand up the stairs to the stage, but she turned him down- a risky move- and faced the crowd. Again her stunning beauty caught him unprepared- Thorn snapped him back to the unfolding nightmare that was reality.

And Halia sang, her angelic voice stunning the crowd even further. It paralyzed Murtagh's mental facilities, so he could only see her, only hear her, only bask in her beauty.

_Come, Rider, apple cheat-one, _

_ Come wither riding!_

_ On your steed so proud and prancing, _

_ Come wither riding! _

_ No matter where I ride, _

_ The Spine's mountains at my side..._

_ Doushamoria! (Come wither riding!)_

_ Doushamoria! (Come wither riding!)_

It was a child's song, meant for infants and meaty toddlers; but it was a song and it was short, and Halia turned to exit the stage. Her task was done- it had barely lasted half a minute- and the crowd sat numb around her feet.

Murtagh wondered if she had meant the song as an insult, that the King was nothing more than a child.

Then the King started applauding.

That single pair of clapping hands burst into the entire crowd roaring for her, applauding for her, begging her for an encore.

The King, to be specific, demanded an encore, telling her to return to the stage. To be specific, he asked for something longer, something with more substance.

And she gave him just that.

Murtagh remembered only one thing of her second song:

It was beautiful.

He could not remember the lyrics; he could not remember what it was about; he could not remember the chorus; he could not remember if the orchestra ever joined her. He could only remember seeing her, staring at her, and knowing that the sounds coming from her frail form were the most beautiful things he had ever heard in his entire life.

And he remembered that she was afraid. From his vantage point, he could see her hand trembling; he could tell that something was amiss.

When she exited the stage, her entire frame was trembling; Murtagh had to help her down the stairs, her vibrating form so small and soft and delicate. Shruikan revealed her fear:

_The magicians are stalking her._

Murtagh turned, scanning the crowd for any sight of Karth and Furdor- they were not two spans from them, maniac smiles still upon their faces.

Their auras tormented Murtagh- they were planning something; they were setting a trap-

And Murtagh immediately decided that he was going to get her out of there, away from their greedy fingers, away from their plotting, away from their possessed stares. As quickly and unnoticed as possible.

With Thorns eyes, he scanned the layout of the Gala from his aerial vantage point. He could go around; there were fewer people, but in the end, it would take slightly longer. And it would be expected for him to keep to the shadows...

Or he could go through.

Taking Halia's cold hand, he led her through the crowd, breaking through their ranks and helping her onto the wide space for the dancers.

He hated dancing, but it was the safest way for her.

To be correct, he had danced a grand total of twice since coming to Uru'baen, both times because the King forced it upon him. The magicians, however, could not go onto the dance floor without partners without risking the King's disapproval...

_What are you doing?_ Shruikan snarled. _She's distraught as it is!_

_ I'm getting her out of here._ Murtagh snapped, ignoring the realization that both his hands could fit around her tiny waist.

The other dancers made way for them- Murtagh was grateful for that- and in a moment they were across the room, hurrying towards the doors. Murtagh kept a firm hand on her arm; with every step she nearly fell, her trembling was becoming so violent.

They turned the first corner of the castle, plowing down the wide hallway-

And a brown and orange blast sent them flying back.

Murtagh managed to pick Halia up before she crumpled onto the floor; setting her on her feet far behind him. A savage snarl broke through his stoic mask as he sent a returning explosion towards the magicians further down the hallway, wondering how they got there.

_HALIA! _Shruikan roared, and Murtagh spun around to see Furdor creeping up on the she-elf. Karth was behind Murtagh, pinning the two in the hallway, trapped-

Or not.

Murtagh grabbed Karth with the scarlet fingers of his magic and threw him on the floor, writhing in pain as the tendrils of magic strangled him. He turned to protect Halia, like he had promised-

She seemed to be doing well on her own.

In one sweeping motion she pulled the dagger from her sleeve and smote Furdor in the face, the blade drawing blood from his left temple to his right shoulder. Caught unprepared, the magician stumbled back, and she spun around and kicked him in the chest. As he flailed backwards, Murtagh lept forward, a word of magic wrapping him in chains.

"Come!" Murtagh began, taking her arm again and stepping over Karth's writhing body-

"Stop."

It was the King- Murtagh couldn't disobey. He kept Halia behind him, shielding her.

"Explain yourself." The King began, deadly quiet. His eyes burned, and Halia kept shaking.

"Under your orders, I investigated the magicians auras, my Lord."

_I told you they were interested in Halia._ Shruikan told Murtagh.

"Shruikan suggested they were jealous of your generosity, and clearly, that is true. I believe they planned on kidnapping her."

"You armed her?"

"Yes." Murtagh took advantage of the opportunity. "I merely added another element to the game."

That satisfied the King, until Furdor whimpered in pain.

"And how are you binding them?"

"I am not killing them, My Lord. I'm merely hurting them- punishing them, you could say. I am not breaking any of my vows." Obviously.

The King nodded. "Release them. I excuse you from the rest of the Gala."

Murtagh had to obey; that didn't stop him from stepping on them as he passed their panting forms.

Halia collapsed half-way to the rooms; Murtagh carried her the rest of the way and set her gently on her bed.

"Why?" She murmured, her eyes screwed shut. "Why me?"

That's when Murtagh put her to sleep.

She was so fair, so innocent, and so... Murtagh couldn't think of a proper word, and Thorn didn't help. To see her in peaceful slumber, red hair everywhere, only aggravated Murtagh's pity for her.

His own sleep didn't come so easily.

* * *

:D Press the button and the next chappie will come sooner... :D I'll see all ya'll later!


	24. Chapter 24 Thorn's Discovery

Hi! I'm back! I'm so sorry about the wait- it's finals week, and my parents put a lock on my computer... I'm working on hacking it, don't worry. :D Isn't this exciting? I think I like posting as much as you all like reading this. :D 16 reviews, people! SIXTEEN! You all make me so euphoric. I wish I could have updated this sooner, but you know... life gets in the way.

Anywho, I'm thinking about re-writing the first chapter, because it has so many views... and the second chapter doesn't. I think it needs to reflect the rest of the story more... any suggestions?

But here's Thorn for you, ladies and gentlemen! Enjoy, and don't forget to review!

**Chapter 24: Thorn's Discovery**

As soon as Thorn's brother-in-mind had fallen into a restless sleep, the dragon asked the King permission to go flying. He told him Murtagh was asleep; he told him he wanted to go hunting. It was the truth.

Well... the partial truth.

The King was too distracted to ask more questions, to pry any further into Thorn's thoughts, and for that, the dragon was grateful. If Galbatorix had seen Saphira's face in his thoughts... it could all be over. And he wanted her to be free; he wanted her to be safe

Thorn wanted so many things... so many! He wanted freedom, he wanted Murtagh to be happy; he wanted Shruikan to be happy. He wanted the two-legged pointy-eared Halia to stop smelling like fear. He wanted the King dead and the war over, and he wanted freedom.

But the King surprised Thorn by agreeing, under the condition that he'd return before morning. He didn't want Murtagh waking up to find him gone, and neither did the dragon. So Thorn left as quickly as he could, soaring over the city, gliding over the wall that chained his Rider inside like fetters. It wasn't fair. He deserved wings too, though he could never get them.

The countryside was quiet, calm, and deserted. Thorn wasn't surprised; whenever the army went anywhere, they stole from the farmers, and he was fairly certain they didn't appreciate that. Most people had moved to the cities for protection, or fled to the Varden.

The Varden.

Thorn sighed. The poor people did not stand half the chance they thought they did. Even with the elves, a vast and powerful army- Murtagh told him that- the King simply had too many eldunari. Too many of the dragons were slaves to the madman. He even had Thorn's eldunari; it was smaller than the others, but brighter.

But the way Murtagh looked at it always made him wonder. The expression of intense longing, the wanting- Thorn didn't understand it, and Murtagh's feelings were too jumbled to sort through.

He was always jumbled whenever he started thinking of the Varden. I'd seen memories of people, dead and alive- Nasuada, the one with obsidian skin; Orik, Eragon's warden-turned-King; King Hrothgar, before he was dead. Thorn had the memory of when he died too- no need to relive it. There was the quirky witch Murtagh didn't understand, her name was Angela, and her werecat Solembom- Thorn wanted to meet him- and Arya the pointy-eared one.

He hated them, Thorn was fairly sure, but he preferred them to the King.

Murtagh had never had much good luck with people.

The red dragon sighed as he flew over a quiet town, a few flames licking his face. _Poor little two-leggeds_. He thought- _they can't be free either, until Galbatorix is dead_.

And that's when he landed in Morzan's courtyard.

Thorn hadn't been paying attention to where he was going; he hadn't meant to go there. Murtagh would have had a fit, but he wasn't there. Just as the dragon was about to leave, a familiar, reeking stench met his nose. He instinctively stopped, one paw raised in mid-air, wings poised to take off.

A shudder ran down his spine- ugh! It smelled awful, like blood and battle, and ecstatic euphoria-

And Saphira.

Her smell was pre-iminent on his mind from the two times they had met; though it had been under bad conditions, that didn't dent his opinion of her. He was sure she loathed me, but she was simply so beautiful, and so strong, and so perfect in every way-

So why did Thorn smell her? In this place?

The pieces of the puzzle fit together in his mind in another instant.

Saphira was missing (with Eragon).

Eragon was in Helgrind.

Helgrind was too small for a dragon.

Eragon had been tortured.

Smelling Saphira meant she had been here. Looking for her Rider, perhaps? But she too had been caught in the invisible dome. Thorn crouched, his head sweeping the musty-rich dirt, trying to find the source of her wonderful aroma.

It was a single drop of blood.

One.

Drop.

Of.

Blood.

Eragon had been tortured.

Here before the red dragon was one drop of Saphira's sweet-smelling blood. And that left one option.

Saphira had been tortured.

Beautiful, proud, stunning, unbelievable Saphira.

She had been tortured by those damned magicians! All the pieces fit into the puzzle- why they had been there, why the mountain shook, why part of the dragonhold was missing.

Saphira.

Thorn crawled along the dirty stone, tracing the magician's smell into a room for two-leggeds. It was much to small for Thorn to fit in, but weak- Thorn considered ripping his nose through it and scattering the pieces across the courtyard. But then the magicians would certainly know he had been there...

He swooped into the dragonhold and did not halt his momentum, crashing into the new wall- the wall that caged Saphira.

The mountain shook.

But what if she was already dead? Thorn began panicking- Murtagh had said nothing with a mind was there. Death would mean her mind was in her eldunari, and who knew where that was... and it would mean death to the race of dragons. Surely the magicians would not do that! Surely...

Thorn clawed at the wall, peeling away slivers of the stone with his talons, encrusting the rock underneath his nails. He roared, he breathed fire, and still it did nothing.

Panting, he slouched against the wall, dragging one ear across the now hot stone.

And he heard something.

Rocketing up, Thorn madly tore at the wall, pushing it, biting it, burning it, scratching scraping tearing – he began to suspect it wasn't stone at all. It wasn't responding like typical stone- it wasn't reacting to his attack.

A shudder ran through his mind, jolting down his spine.

He growled at the dragonhold doorway, hissing at the time that had passed, at the time that had flown by in his crazed anxiety. But he still had no proof Saphira was there, save the noise he heard- if he had heard that at all!

The shudder spiked through his conscience- he snarled, wanting to stay, but- but he just _couldn't_...

_I'll come back, Saphira_. He vowed. _I will_.

And he took off towards Uru'baen.


	25. Chapter 25 Into the Fire

Ugh. Finals. What else do I need to say?

Anyway, a few of you noticed the times I slipped up last chapter and said 'I' or something like that- I first wrote that chapter in the first person point of view, but for the sake of consistency, I changed it back. Sorry about the mistakes.

Hey, so I'm sorry about not posting earlier- I did a major editing of the next three chapters. It took forever, but its so much better than before! I really hope everyone likes it, and reviews! :) Hey, if I get 15 reviews, I'll post before I leave for Mexico on Saturday... :) (And by the way, I'll be gone for a week. So... yeah. You should definitely review.)

**Chapter 25: Into the Fire**

Murtagh woke with a jolt- a searing pain in his mind. It drove nails through his memories and a dagger through his senses; overwhelming his entire being, possessing him.

It was the King.

_Get up._ The King began; his tone was mildly cheerful, but annoyed. _You're going to repay me for last night. Up! _

Murtagh staggered out of bed, half dead, stumbling towards the door. The King moved his legs, forced his feet out of his chambers.

"My Lord?" Halia asked, standing in the library doorway, "Are you well?"

Galbatorix chuckled; the sound echoed in Murtagh's mind.

"Good morning, Galby." Kidasku greeted the King. He knew the signs. "Where are you taking Murtagh?"

The King's good mood vanished. "I told you to leave Uru'baen, you filthy half-breed."

"Oh, don't worry." Kidasku smiled. "I am making arrangements for my exit. I don't want to stay in this hole any longer than you want me too." He smiled that fanged, foxy smile.

The King/Murtagh headed down the hallway, strapping on Zar'roc. Murtagh wasn't sure where he was going, but he didn't want to ask, either. Less was always more, with the King.

But the answer was readily apparent. The King shoved Murtagh into the armory outside the Arena, where nine other magicians were suiting up. All were silent, eying each other suspiciously.

_Thorn?_ Murtagh asked, but Thorn was not there. At all- not sleeping, not half-there in his typical morning grogginess, just... gone.

_Thorn?_ He repeated, anxiety wrapping itself around his heart. It angered him that the King knew it; he was so deep in Murtagh's mind, the Red Rider could hardly think for himself.

The King pulled himself from Murtagh's mind; the pain was like extracting a splinter.

Murtagh gritted his teeth, glad the Kinghad finally left him. He glanced at the various weapons and armor and grabbed a dagger, strapping it around his arm. There weren't any eldunari; that was both a good and a bad thing. It meant he would not have any other energy, but neither would the other magicians.

A gong echoed though the place, and the first magician stepped into the Arena as his name was called. And another. And another. And another.

And Murtagh waited.

His title was called, and the crowd roared, cheering him. But Murtagh knew it was only because most of them had put their bets on him- he was, after all, the strongest magician there.

He stepped into the Arena and immediately charged a pocket of three, fighting magicians. Only the third noticed him, but it only meant he saw his failure, because all fell.

Blood splattered the ground, dripping down Zar'roc, staining Murtagh's shirt. Violent, red blood. And suddenly Murtagh was furious- angry that Thorn was missing, angry that the King had such power, angry that the magicians were such bastards, angry that the Varden was so weak. The freed emotion boiled in his blood, and instinctively, his eyes turned Thorn's red rather than his own stormy gray. Zar'roc felt perfect in his hand, the embodiment of precision and Death, and the blood that spilled over the rich earth of the Arena only fueled his lust for revenge.

Three down, six to go.

Following the sound of fighting, Murtagh crept through the underbrush, his senses on edge from not having Thorn watching his back. He leaned against a tree, watching two of the magicians go at it with as much control as a churning river- none. Sloppy magic, as Murtagh thought of it. He remembered Eragon used it far too often, when they were friends- like the time he dropped boulders on the Urgals chasing them. He had nearly fainted from loss of energy.

And just as Murtagh predicted, one of the magicians flopped over, limp as a dead fish. Crowing his victory, the other raised an arm to end his life-

Murtagh chained that arm in tendrils of red magic, prying the sword from his gasp. Fear washed over the magician's face, but also relief- he knew Murtagh wouldn't kill him.

The temptation to just rid the earth of that magician tore at Murtagh's heart- he did nothing but harm the people there, anyway. He was a threat, a rival-

_"Don't!" Eragon cried, but too late. _

_ The slave trader's head hit the ground with a sickening thud, his eyes rolling into the back of his head as blood pooled around the disembodied part. _

_ "What did you do that for?" Eragon roared, his blue eyes blazing, his fists trembling with anger. "You murdered him!" _

_ "What?" Murtagh asked, surprised by Eragon's outburst and his sudden fury. "He was a threat that had to be eliminated."_

_ "You didn't have to kill him!" _

_ Did I? Murtagh wondered. Did I have to kill him? _

Did he have to kill that magician? The pathetic thing was already terrified of Murtagh's mere presence; Murtagh decided pain would settle the score.

With two simple words, Murtagh snapped the man's femur, and walked away as he screamed.

Five down, four to go.

The ground began rumbling- Dammit!- as the King added a few spices to flare up the fights. They were his games, after all; Murtagh supposed he was unsatisfied that he hadn't killed that magician. Clearly, there wasn't enough blood.

"Contenders!" The King's seductive and pleasant voice echoed around the Arena, "Prepare yourselves for a few added enemies!"

_Dammit!_ Murtagh thought, realizing he wouldn't know how many magicians there would be anymore.

But as soon as the King announced it, Murtagh heard it- the clash of arms. He may as well have released a section of the Red Guard, they made so much noise.

Shruikan began roaring- Murtagh blamed it on a bad mood. A massive explosion rocked the Arena, and Murtagh charged towards it, unafraid and confident.

_GO!_ Shruikan began roaring, _GO!_

_But why?_ Murtagh doubted his question ever made it to the dragon's mental ears, for he began roaring with a fury Murtagh couldn't place. The King regularly made changes to his Game...

Another explosion threw Murtagh to the ground, and a few battered soldiers stumbled through the treeline, running like demons were on their heels. Murtagh put them out immediately- what made them so afraid?

A scream rent the air and was suddenly cut off, like the victim's head had been looped off. Murtagh picked up his pace, partially from morbid curiosity, partially because Shruikan was screaming again. He knocked three more soldiers unconscience- that was seven soldiers already, and the other magicians must have picked off a few others.

He broke through the underbrush and let loose a violent war-cry, his simmering fury breaking through like a volcano at the scene before him.

Halia stood amid a pile of bodies- alive or dead, Murtagh didn't want to know- a sword in her hands, surrounded by twenty-some-odd soldiers. They were the ones yelling and screaming, because her mouth was zipped in a straight line.

Her eyes, though, revealed much more. They burned through anything that met them- soldiers were backing away from her in fear- the intensity of her expression warning everyone who came within her reach. Her flaming hair helped her appearance; it tumbled around her face and shoulders like a waterfall of blood, or lava crashing down a mountainside.

Her clothes were covered in gore and splattered with blood, the red liquid dripping down her deadly blade.

And it was so wrong.

Murtagh charged forward just as another brave soldier- or was he suicidal?- ran up the pile of bodies and attacked her. Her attention on him, another came up from the back, and just as the words began tumbling from Murtagh's lips to pull him away, a third came-

Halia spun around and a third explosion threw everyone within a ten-foot radius on the ground. _What happened to her not being able to use magic?_ Murtagh thought.

Spitting a strand of hair out of her mouth, Halia snarled- the sound was so feline Murtagh glanced around for Kidasku- and darted away, speeding through the foilage of the Arena.

_Follow her you dolt!_ Shruikan roared, the ground trembling like an aftershock. _If she gets so much as a scratch on her-!_

Murtagh agreed, charging after her vanishing form. Just before he left the clearing, he knocked every single soldier there out- he'd break their legs too, if he saw any of them again.

But Halia had vanished. Murtagh hovered on the edge of her mind, not wanting to enter, not wanting her to get hurt either. But he had a taste of her mentality- her original panic was embodied in adrenaline, and a fierce concentration designated her every move. But how could she use magic? A part of her mind was still shrouded in darkness, the part (as Kidasku had said) that controlled magic.

Another blast echoed around the Arena.

Adrenaline then. If she merely thought of the intended spell, adrenaline did the rest of the work. How strong was she? That was already four explosions.

Five, then.

_Follow her, fool! _Shruikan bellowed.

_But where did she go?_ Murtagh asked, running circles around the Arena's perimeter.

"There!" Came the echoing cry. "Attack!"

Halia tore out of the woods, nothing but a blur of red, three soldiers on her heels. Murtagh did away with them, only to realize Halia was occupied with two others who had snuck up from the back.

Outrage burst in Murtagh's chest as a trail of scarlet blood ran down Halia's arm- her own blood. It dripped from her fingers, painting her arm and hand, trailing down her blade and mixing with the blood of her- their- enemies.

Murtagh barked an order, and the two soldiers fell on the ground, writhing like suffocating serpents. The pain was only in their mind- but that didn't make it any more endurable.

Murtagh looked up, and Halia had vanished again. _Dammit! _ Where had she run off too? Murtagh sprinted in the direction Shruikan told him, tearing through the Arena, overpowering magicians as he went. She was on all of their minds, but only because they had been ordered to find her. So how had she passed them?

A sixth explosion went off, rocking the Arena. Murtagh headed in that general direction, determined to find her, to defeat the rest of the magicians together.

And a scream tore through the forest, a shudder of horror electrocuting Murtagh. The cry was one of agony, of terror, of bitter fury; and it was Halia's scream.

Murtagh couldn't think of anything that would make an elf scream.

He moved stealthily, now, though it was slower. He had to catch whoever was in the Arena, he had to snag them in their own game.

_Run, fool!_ Shruikan bellowed. _It's the magicians!_

He did not need to say anything more; Murtagh tore through the wood, a spell already pouring from his lips. He broke into the clearing, slinking into a shadow to watch the scene unfold.

Halia and the magicians were in a deathly staring contest; one side smiled, the other glared with such a fury and hate Halia could have set Uru'baen on fire with it. Her chest heaved; her fingers trembled and her sword shook, dripping blood into a puddle around her feet.

Her eyes blazed with such hatred, such fury, that Murtagh didn't doubt that she would kill them.

Furdor moved to the left, and Karth to the right, circling her like vultures around their prey. Halia took a few steps back, then a few more as they encroached on her space. Murtagh, on the other hand, took a few steps forward, so she could see him.

Her burning gaze flickered between each of the bastards as she took a few more steps back, beginning the deadly dance.

Murtagh watched as she lifted her foot to go further back, and she backed up against an invisible wall. Her foot was braced against it, and her lips curled up, a snarl ripping though the clearing.

It was the invisible dome they had used to capture her; the same one, Murtagh guessed, they had used against Eragon and Saphira.

The magicians took another step forward, and Halia charged forward, a blur of red-

And slammed against the other side of the dome.

Murtagh watched as she slid to the ground, her hair covering her face. Her shoulders slumped- was that a tear that fell to the ground?- and Murtagh feared she had given up. But no, she hadn't. When she stood, blood dripping from her nose, the flame in her eyes had exploded into a blaze, hotter than Thorn's fire.

_Do something, before I have your head._ Shruikan snarled.

And Murtagh smiled.

The spell worked out perfectly; red talons grabbed the magicians like the hands of Death, sliding around their necks and lifting them high in the air. A third hand grappled with the dome, prodding around it for a weakness, for a fault. It didn't have any, so Murtagh began using more creative measures.

He went down.

The hand dove into the ground, slipping into the dome without a problem as the magicians' chokes echoed through the Arena. Murtagh decided choking them wasn't exciting enough- the crowd would want more- and he dropped them, telling the hands to give them pain.

He gave them the pain he knew- the pain he felt during torturing.

Grim satisfaction settled in his heart as they writhed on the ground, screaming their agony. Their backs arched and collapsed as they twitched, tears pouring from their eyes-

_Stop._ The King said, Murtagh's spells ending.

Murtagh only stopped enough that the King could not see their agony; Murtagh froze their bodies, but plunged into their minds, intoxicated by his power over them. He rifled through their memories as painfully as he could; ripping through their brains, until he found what he wanted.

Eragon, so deformed and torn he was hardly recognizable.

Fury burned hot in his heart; only his vows prevented him from killing them then and there. But he kept moving, so they would not know he knew who that maimed prisoner was.

_Stop!_ The King roared, and Murtagh pulled away from the magicians' minds, emboldened by the sight of Halia.

He ripped the dome off of her, and before he was even finished she tore out of her invisible cage, charging, blade drawn, towards the magicians.

A savage war cry left her lips, and Furdor was not fast enough to avoid her fury. His hand was where his head had been, and the limb was severed from his body. Screaming, he lept to his feet, just in time for her sword to reach his throat-

And suddenly he was gone.

Not gone as in dead, but gone as in, he was not there. Someone had pulled him away from Halia's wrath, and a ferocious echo rang through the Arena as Halia's blade met the King's.

Murtagh, with Zar'roc in hand, recoiled as Halia's burning green eyes met the King's black, amused ones. Their faces were not even seven inches apart. It was a silent dare, Murtagh knew- the King was daring her to fight him. He had done it before to Murtagh.

And just like Murtagh, she accepted the challenge.

She pulled away and swung her blade in a wide arc, dodging the King's black blade. His face was neutral, expressionless; hers was the the same, save her eyes. They burned hotter than ever before, and Murtagh wanted nothing more than to join her, to stand by her side and support her, to fight the King-

But he couldn't.

His feet were cemented to the ground; he couldn't move, couldn't do anything more than watch. The spectators roared louder than ever- truly, they loved this Game. But his fingers trembled with eagerness, and a headache pounded in his mind, like a fissure was running down his head, driven by a hammer and nail.

Halia dodged another blow by the King; Murtagh watched as a lock of her hair drifted to the ground, sliced by the King's black blade.

And out of the corner of his eyes, Murtagh saw Furdor and Karth rise to their feet.

And he smiled once more, a fresh jolt of adrenaline boiling his blood. The King was distracted; perhaps, just maybe...

He turned, that cruel smile still across his face, and slammed the magicians with a wall so powerful, so strong, that they were thrown twenty feet back, and slid along the torn ground. Murtagh's fingers trembled with excitement as he put their own dome over them, save with one improvement: it was a complete sphere, with no means of escape.

They picked themselves up, not knowing that they stood in a trap, and sent Murtagh a blast of their own, orange and brown mixing, gaining speed- and it ricocheted back upon them.

Murtagh's smile grew as the taste of revenge grew in his mind.

He shrank the dome so they could not stand; then forced them to their knees, to their hands, until they were curled up like infants within the womb. Their screams echoed in the dome and encouraged Murtagh's smile; he forced the dome upon them till it was like a straitjacket, clinging to their skin, threatening to implode them.

"Stop, or she dies." Came the cold, threatening voice of the King. The smile vanished from Murtagh's face, replaced by his stoic mask.

Murtagh slowly turned, dreading what he would see. Halia stood frozen, her blade in the air, her hair fanning around her face, unmoving. And the King had his hand to her throat, staring at Murtagh, daring him to disobey.

The headache started pounding his mind again, harder; it throbbed, stuttering his thoughts, and Murtagh wondered if he was dying, if this was the beginning of a new form of torture. And slowly, ever so slowly, he released the magicians. The King still didn't let go of Halia.

He felt a touch of Thorn's conscience, but it was distant, and Murtagh could hardly understand him.

The spectators were quiet, hushed, waiting for the outcome of the stand off.

Murtagh left the tendrils of red magic in the Arena, swirling around him.

The King's gaze narrowed.

Murtagh released two of the hands, leaving the third at his side.

The King's hand tightened around Halia's throat, and the pain in Murtagh's mind pounded as he lept forward, hands open, gedwey ignasia glowing with magic to pull her away-

And another explosion rocked the Arena, throwing the fighters every other direction. Murtagh landed on his feet and pounced forward, looking for Halia in the smoke of the burning trees-

They collided and Murtagh immediately pulled her behind him, his eyes running across Halia's battered form. The blaze in her eyes had doubled in size, though it was sputtering, and Murtagh grabbed her hand and started towards the exit.

He didn't need to speak to tell her they needed to leave.

"Stop!" The King roared, and Murtagh slid to a halt (though he did not want too), throwing Halia behind him, shielding her from the King's wrath.

"Run!" He whispered. She paused for just a moment, but he pushed her on, and she gave him one last look before turning and darting into the smoke.

_I'll watch her._ Shruikan promised. _I'll get her out of here. Just stay alive._

And Murtagh turned to face the King, his hands at his side, Zar'roc in its sheath because it would not help him.

The King stepped from the smoke, fury in his eyes.

"Don't you have some spunk?" He laughed, but Murtagh heard the edge in his tone, he saw the signs of the King's barely suppressed fury.

And he felt the pain a moment later.

Murtagh gritted his teeth as agony ripped through his system, crippling him, sending him crashing to the ground. He lost control of his arms and legs as another spike of torture washed through his system, drowning out all other feeling. He could hear Thorn's faint roar, but he wasn't sure if it was in his mind or in reality.

The pain let up for just a moment, and panting, Murtagh forced himself to his knees, determined to get up, to face the King like a man-

And he tasted the King's boot.

The air rushed out of Murtagh's system as the King kicked him in the stomach again and again, and beat him over the head, and slammed the but of his sword into Murtagh's chest, and broke his arms and shoulders...

Murtagh's conscience flickered as the pain pounded again and again upon his mind, spiking through his system, and flashes of white danced across his vision.

And then there was nothing.


	26. Chapter 26 Dreams of the Dying

14 reviews? Close enough!

Eragonfan12- Okay. Here's the deal: Eragon is in Helgrind, and Thorn thinks Saphira is at Morzan's castle. If you didn't catch that the first time around, read Chp. 24. It's the one that's in Thorn's POV.

SimplySupreme- Sorry, I'm not going through Phoenix. That's a little bit out of the way, for me... I found it funny that most of your review was about Mexico rather than the actual story. ;)

UniqueFantasiser- For your Chapter 24 review you said that my writing was good- like a real authors. That's because I am a real author. :D

So... I'll update next Sunday, probably. I'll try, at least. You people are WONDERFUL. I LOVE YOU. SO. FRIGGIN'. MUCH.

**Chapter 26: Dreams of the Dying **

It was quiet and still, when Murtagh's mind aroused. Quiet, still, and… peaceful. Murtagh couldn't remember where he had been before, but he assumed that it was a thousand times more disruptive than this place.

But where was this place?

His eyes fluttered open- he laid on his back, staring up at a green and golden ceiling of leaves, spotted by specks of blue sky. He could smell rain- the kind that soothed a moody heart- and the freshness of spring, of blooming flowers and the awakening world. He could feel soft grass beneath his head, tickling his arms, strands of the earth's jade hair swaying around him in the gentle breeze. He could hear birds singing, chattering above him- he saw the scarlet breast of a cardinal dart across the roof above him. A brook gurgled somewhere nearby; and someone was singing.

Murtagh didn't know the song; he sat up, looking around for the performer. It was so _green_- he was sure that anyone nearby could see him, considering he was wearing red. But why would they leave him be? He didn't know how he had gotten there or where there even was; but all the same, he liked the place.

The Red Rider, standing up, took a deep, steadying breath, letting the sweetness fill his lungs and invigorate his system. He felt so _alive_- like he had just woken from a deep sleep. His questions didn't bother him; rather, he hardly noticed, taking a few steps in search of the singer.

The golden-green wood around him harmonized with the performer, whispering, echoing, thriving on the song. It told Murtagh where to go; it led him on, sending him tromping through streams and across sunny clearings. Though he was alone, it didn't bother him. He had always been introverted. The song ran through his bones, through his mind; was it magic? The elves were wont to sing magic through things, imbue them with unnatural properties- perhaps the song was doing that to him.

He didn't mind.

And he kept following the music, searching for the source of the song. He faintly recognized the voice; he could not put a name to it, with the joyful haze around his mind. Everything in the wood embodied perfection; Murtagh half-wished he could stay there forever, but he knew he had duties, responsibilities- though he couldn't quite call them to mind.

The source of the singing grew louder, closer- Murtagh hurried on, eager to meet the magician, to learn the unfathomable truth and meaning behind his poetic words.

He saw a flash of silver up ahead, and his feet picked up their pace, darting through the underbrush, his passing sending ripples through the lush grass. And as the music grew louder his joy, his curiosity, his eagerness, grew just as much.

He stumbled into a clearing more beautiful than the last, something close to a smile upon his face. The music ran through his soul, cutting through his mind, destroying his defenses in one fell swoop. He didn't even notice. An elf, with silver hair down to his- or was it her?- waist, sat at a table that groaned with the feast upon it. A white raven was perched upon the elf's shoulders, swaying to the haunting, irresistable music.

Murtagh couldn't convince himself to speak, to disturb the quiet. A breeze tossed his hair around his face, carrying with it the sweet smells of the peaceful, perfect, golden forest. He could have stood there forever, basking in the glory of the wood and the magic of the song.

But the white raven stiffened, turned around, fixing two black beady eyes upon him. "And on the door was graven evermore, here stands the one of hated Red who swore to Evil's Gore_- he walks by deathly doors_."

The peace was disturbed, the song disrupted, ruined, and Murtagh felt a rock sink into his stomach.

"Hush, Blagden." Said a gentle voice. "We must be gracious to our guest."

It struck Murtagh like a wave of water, drowning his senses, his mind, tearing apart the joy and ease that had come with the song. It ripped all the calmness that had buoyed his mind, it slammed his shields back into place, prowling like a captive dragon in his mind.

That voice- it sent lightning down his spine, electrocuting him with horror, shock, and- dare he even think it- terror.

He knew that voice.

He knew the performer, the speaker.

And he wanted to run, to flee the dream that had turned into a nightmare. He wanted to hide, even- to bury himself and die there, for that was what he deserved.

The speaker, however, did not deserve the fate he had been handed; he did not deserve the bloody end that had been his.

"Murtagh, would you like to sit with me?" The performer asked.

_No_. Murtagh wanted to reply. _Kill me, and then, when we are equals, I will sit with you_.

"Come, Rider." The speaker began, turning two cutting eyes on Murtagh. "I will not hurt you; you have my word."

The elf placed his golden sword on the table, the sword that Murtagh knew was in the King's Vault. He had presented it to the King, and hadn't seen it since.

"Murtagh. Please; I have much to tell you, and though I doubt you will listen to half of what I say, I implore you, sit. Eat. You are weary, though you do not know it."

"Why would I?" Murtagh asked. "You've done no wrong against me, but I… I hurt you more than I can imagine."

"All the same."

Murtagh took a hesitant step forward; he did not like this situation, for nothing made sense anymore, and his questions rang against his skull like hammars against an anvil. But just as the elf had said it, so Murtagh realized that he was hungry, he was tired; his bones and muscles groaned like they had endured a beating.

Oromis watched him with careful, gentle, eyes. There was no fury in his expression, so condemnation; that stunned Murtagh. Where was the hate he had expected? There was pity- always, pity- but it was not the burning fever for revenge that the Red Rider had expected.

He gingerly eased himself into a chair, watching Oromis, not wanting to break their even stare. It was like the elf was prying through his soul- his charred, blackened, damnable soul- and found the puzzle amusing. But Murtagh found nothing humorous in the situation; he was sitting next to the one person who could have helped free him from the King-

The same person he had killed.

Sure, sure, the King had possessed him, the King had used him, the King had guided the deathly blow-

But it was Murtagh's body, Murtagh's hand, Murtagh's- Morzan's- sword…

It was all so sick and twisted, the world- his very existence! Murtagh turned away, unable to bear Oromis's eyes any longer.

"You're quite unlike your brother, Murtagh." The elf began; Murtagh didn't understand why he was even speaking to him, the murderer. "You are patient; you're willing to wait for answers. Eragon, on the other hand…" Oromis chuckled; Murtagh stared at a platter of fruit before him, unable to speak or eat or think logically. "When we first met, Eragon could hardly speak, he had so many questions. For us, however… the tables were turned, then. You were the one speaking."

"It was a different situation." Murtagh growled. Why was Oromis reminicing on his own death?

"Quite. But all the same- as you said, you two are very much alike."

Murtagh focused on the stem of a green apple, trying to clear his mind. He was failing; the memory of Glaedr's dying roar, his final scream, his last cry, echoed in Murtagh's ears like it had happened only moments before. He could not help but shudder.

"Do you know where you are?" Oromis asked.

"No."

"Do you know where Eragon is?"

Murtagh paused- there couldn't be any harm in telling a dead person where a living being was. Oromis couldn't exactly tell anyone… but how were they even speaking? Where _was_ he? "He's in Helgrind."

"No, he's not."

Murtagh's head snapped up, his eyes narrowing and his heart thumming in his chest. "What do you know of it?"

Oromis sighed. "Do you know where you are, Murtagh?"

"I already said no. I will not repeat myself again."

"Don't have your father's arrogance." Oromis snapped, glaring. "I knew him better than you ever did."

"Then I pity you." Murtagh replied, now meeting Oromis's eyes.

The golden gaze softened. "Yes…" The elf murmured, mostly to himself, Murtagh presumed, "One is two and two is one."

Murtagh didn't bother asking- elves and their riddles!

"Think, Murtagh. I know you're clever- you've gotten around your vows several times- but where are you? No, no, don't answer yet. Think."

_Thorn?_ Murtagh asked, wanting his dragon's opinion.

But Thorn was not there. Thorn was not anywhere, and the brooding forest took on a more menancing hue.

"No, no, I feel you slipping away even now." Oromis interrupted. "I'm not questioning your intellect, Murtagh, but you're fading, and there is much I still must tell you."

"I'm not leaving. I have no where to go." Murtagh replied.

"But you do, Murtagh. Don't you see? I have joined the Fallen, the Lost. You are balancing on the edge of a knife- take one step and you will fall into oblivion or return to the world of the living. You are dying, Murtagh; your body above is the only thing preventing you from dying this very moment. Your mind is not sustained- not yet- but Thorn is preventing you from completely dying.

"Hense, your mind wandered here, to the Wood. It had nowhere to go quite yet- it had yet to decide whether to die or recouperate. I am the Keeper of the Wood."

Murtagh waited for the elf to continue.

A smile tugged at the corners of Oromis's lips. "Eragon would not have let the silence last longer than half a moment. I assume you want to know why I am here, rather than… beyond?" A sadness grew in the elf's eyes, a weariness, a hollow, broken look that Murtagh had seen in Halia's face. "I am waiting for Glaedr; we will go on together.

"But I digress! Time, time! I have years and years of quiet peace and in the end, I must rush. Now, Murtagh- your brother- he is here as well. Yes, his body may be in Helgrind, but his mind has wandered here, and there is scarce little preventing him from falling away. So you must act quickly; you have no time to wait to rescue him- that is your plan, correct?"

"Once I have a means, yes."

"Not a rash one, are you? Good, good. All the better."

_It waxes and wanes and washes away, and in the end, it's scare a day. _Blagden crowed.

"Yes, Blagden, time. Come, Murtagh- come!" Oromis rose fluidly, easily; Murtagh felt his bones groaning, and a spasm ran down his scar.

Oromis saw his pain. "Yes, yes, you're slipping away. You're fading rather quickly- now tell me, Murtagh- do you know where the Rock is?"

"Yes."

"And you know how to open it?"

"No."

"Ah, there lies the question, for you must open the Vault, and the Vault is in the Rock. Without it, you cannot defeat Galbatorix, you cannot rescue Eragon, and you can never have your freedom. The Rock is the weapon we- the elves, at least- never knew of; you must take it from the King. You must turn it against him."

"It's a rock." Murtagh argued. "The only way to turn it against him would be to bash it across his head."

_Across his head, the Rock will fall! _Blagden shrieked.

Oromis smiled, a full smile that lit up his ancient, weary eyes. "One for riddles and rhymes, Murtagh? Perhaps another time. But the Rock is much more than you think it is. It is a vast and terrible beauty; if you dare to open it- we know you have the resolve- you must withstand its' fire to control it."

"Fire?" Murtagh asked. "And a madman had the strength to endure it?"

"I don't understand it any more than you do." Oromis replied. "Perhaps Galbatorix's insanity is what gave him immunity against the flames. I don't know- but I suppose you will find out sometime soon."

"But you've told me almost nothing." Murtagh began. "Besides that I'm dying, and so is Eragon, and he must be rescued- the latter two I assumed! You're not the first to tell me to open the Rock of Kuthain; you say I must but no one knows how too. So in the end, your words are empty and useless to me."

"To you." Oromis replied, unshaken by the venom in Murtagh's voice. "But to others they may be of use. And know that Eragon is no the only one who you must rescue. There is a witch-child, Elva- she is suffering as well, and I would suggest having her on your side, Murtagh."

"The only people I come in contact to are evil, save Thorn and Shruikan. If the Rock will help defeat the King you will have to find someone else, because I am nothing more than a tool in the King's hand."

"For now."

"Find someone else."

Oromis sighed. "We already had, Murtagh, but he is no longer able to help us. Don't you see? You are the only one. You alone have the ability to open the Rock and turn it against Galbatorix."

"You're saying that I, the one who killed you, am the only being alive that can save Alagaesia."

This was impossible. This was dream, it was absured-

"Exactly." Oromis replied, as calm as ever.

"And what use would it be to me? I'd win my freedom, of course, but the world would immediately arrange for my execution. In the end, I'd gain nothing but death."

"But hasn't that been what you've wanted?" Oromis pried, "I've heard of how many times you've walked the fine line between life and death; I know how you loath your life. But are you so selfish that you would not die so others may live happily?"

"Why would I sacrifice myself for the people who hate me?" Murtagh snapped, a touch of the bitterness of the years in his tone. "Why would I give them what they want- my life?"

"Because it is the right thing to do."

Murtagh stared at Oromis, stunned.

_Because it was the right thing to do. _

_ Halia, staring up at him with shy, terrified, sharp green eyes. But honesty was in her expression; after days, weeks, possibly months of being tortured, she had retained her virtue. She had helped the one who was her jailer. _

_ Because it was the right thing to do. _

A sharp pain twisted Murtagh's stomach; he couldn't explain it. Oromis seemed to notice the flare of pain in Murtagh's eyes, he leaned forward, more eager than ever.

"You are the only one who can save the innocent, Murtagh." Oromis began. "Can you imagine it? You- the one who was hated, scorned, mocked- being the hero? Everyone would be eternally indebted to you, irrevocably bound to you-"

Another pain stabbed through Murtagh's mind- what was wrong with his hands?

"Ah, but you're fading now." Oromis sighed, leaning back. "Your time here is over, our conversation ended. Good-bye, Murtagh."

An undescribable need sprang in Murtagh's heart- he couldn't leave yet! He had questions, he needed answers, he needed-

"Forgive me, Oromis." Murtagh cried, his vision blurring, the green and gold of the forest melting together, the elf's ancient face fast fading. "Forgive me!"

And then there was pain.

Biting, breaking, burning pain. Murtagh had felt it before, but each time it scalded his mind with a fresh memory of agony, a new mark of the King's insanity- and all around Murtagh there was blackness, an unending darkness-

_Wake up._ Thorn begged._ Murtagh, wake up._

Murtagh groaned, for his entire body burned and throbbed and roared with pain, with agony.

_Wake up_. Thorn pleaded. _Don't drift again._

_Awake, Rider._ Shruikan ordered. _You must._

Murtagh didn't move, but pieces of his position came together. He was laying on his back, and he knew from the pain that he was badly injured. And he was so tired... he just wanted to sleep...

His ears faintly caught the sound of Thorn roaring.

_I will get Halia, if I must. _Shruikan threatened.

_Halia?_ Murtagh wondered.

And then the memory crashed upon him. He screwed his eyes tighter closed, trying to block out the pain but miserably failing; he gritted his teeth and tried making his hands into fists to fight it off, but that only antagonized the pain, for his arms were broken.

_Get up_. Shruikan ordered. _Heal yourself and get up._

Murtagh wondered if he even could heal himself.

_Please_. Thorn begged. _Please, Murtagh, please try. _

_I should tell Galbatorix he's dying. That'll make him come running to hel_p. Shruikan mentioned.

_NO! _Thorn snarled._ Murtagh, please. Don't make the King come._

Murtagh turned it over in his mind; having someone help sounded wonderful. But... would his death strike a harder blow to the King?

_Stop it! _Thorn roared. _Don't think like that! Heal yourself and get to the dragonhold_._ I'd carry you if I could, but I don't fit in the Arena door. _

Sleep sounded so wonderful...

_MURTAGH!_ Thorn roared; the castle began shaking. _MURTAGH!_

Murtagh groaned; when the castle shook, so did the ground, and that encouraged his pain to flare.

_Open your eyes._ Shruikan suggested.

Murtagh didn't want too.

_Open your eyes. What do you see?_ Shruikan asked.

Murtagh's eyes fluttered open; for a moment, he didn't see anything. But one by one the stars above Uru'baen revealed themselves, diamonds sewn into the blanket of the heavens.

_Halia needs you. _Shruikan told him. _Get up._

Halia didn't need him; her life would be better if he had never existed. The only one who ever benefited from his existence was Thorn. He had only done harm to whoever he knew...

_She needs you, Murtagh. What will happen to her if you die?_

Murtagh moaned and forced his fingers to reach into the ground, trying to feel the rich, cool earth rather than the pain. And he stole the Arena's energy, for he had none of his own; first came his arms, which had been snapped like toothpicks. From there, he reached for Zar'roc, taking energy from that too heal his head and torso. And even before he was halfway through, he knew he shouldn't risk the energy anymore.

_Then get up_. Shruikan told him.

Murtagh's bones ached, his muscles groaned- and he had hardly moved.

Dying sounded wonderful; he would be released from Galbatorix's spells, there would be no more pain, no more regret, no more demons to fight...

Maybe.

Perhaps he was so lost, so evil, that even in death he would be eternally punished, eternally bound to repay the debt...

_Get up, Murtagh, before I come in there and bite your head off for thinking like that. I have news, and I won't tell you unless you're at my side. _Thorn growled.

Murtagh's curiosity mustered some interest, but lost heart, and he closed his eyes and rested on the cool earth of the Arena.

_Murtagh._ Shruikan began, his tone sharper than before. _I am not afraid to get the King._

_ Is he still not up?_ Kidasku asked, interrupting the conversation. _Lazy boy. Oh, Thorn- is Halia in the dragonhold? _

_ No._ Thorn began, surprise in his tone. _Isn't she in Murtagh's apartments?_

_ ...No. _

Murtagh's eyes flew open. S_hruikan, you told me you'd watch her! _

_ I sent her straight to your rooms!_ The dragon cried.

Gritting his teeth, Murtagh rolled over, panting from the slightest movement. Zar'roc dug into his hip. Forcing his arms beneath him, he pushed himself to his hands, then his knees, and unsteadily to his feet. Thorn crowed with pride. Murtagh stumbled forward a few feet and leaned against a tree, gasping for air.

_I lied._ Kidasku told them. _She's right next to me, pacing the room. I think she'll wear a path in the carpet, Murtagh. _

_ KIDASKU!_ Shruikan roared.

_What?_ The werecat asked, feining innocence. _It got him to his feet, at least._

The dragons grumbled as Murtagh slid from tree to tree, struggling to breathe. It seemed like icy daggers were being dragged down his throat, and each raspy breath pained his chest. He just wanted to sleep... That thought encouraged him to keep moving, to keep stumbling down the darkened hallways. They echoed with his coughs, with his pitiful gasps. Where was an eldunari when he needed one?

He couldn't even manage the locks on his door- was seven even necessary? He wasn't sure, until Thorn reminded him that it was to stop intruders. Then how had Halia ended up in the Arena?

The door flung open, and there she stood, but Murtagh's eyelids were too heavy to look at her properly. He could see blurring red- her hair- but the rest swam together, too jumbled to make out.

His feet felt like lead weights, and he dragged himself into the room, Halia hovering around him, silent. He collapsed onto his bed, shuddered violently for a moment, and was still.

This sleep was sweet.

He did not see Halia's tears; he did not notice how she tenderly draped a blanket over his cold, beaten body; he did not feel her gentle touch brush his dark hair out of his face.

"Thank you." She whispered, tears sliding down her face. "Thank you, Murtagh."


	27. Chapter 27 Into the Darkness

Hi! I'm back! Mexico was great- I didn't drink any of the water or get sunburned, and we finished the house (it was a mission trip) with a day to spare! But one of the best parts was coming home and reading your reviews- after 18 hours in a car, they were sweet tonic to a very tired soul.

- I will read the chapter you asked me too! I will! Soon! I swear!

Here's an Eragon chapter- just to tell ya'll ahead of time. I really like it... oh... it makes me feel so evil...

Anyway! Today I wrote three chapters! Well, finished one, started and finished another, and started a third. I'm very proud of myself- that's almost 6,000 words. I really hope ya'll like Chapter 31... it made me tear up, and I frickin' wrote it! Yeah, so review, my amigos!

**Chapter 27: Into the Darkness**

Eragon stared at the ceiling, unknowing, unfeeling, lost. Fat and Chunky had just left; somewhere he knew he should feel the pain, but his mind had blocked it. Perhaps he was becoming one of the painless ones. He didn't really want to know.

Here we go round the prickly pear, prickly pear, prickly pear...

The marble was hot from the fire they had used; perhaps he had been branded.

The dragon flew over the moon.

He was a Rider... right? His thoughts sputtered, like their path had been torn apart. Who was his dragon? He did have a Dragon... correct?

The prickly pear flew over the moon.

What was a prickly pear? He wasn't sure... perhaps a food? But what was food? Perhaps a prickly pear was a weapon- an unbeatable one!- and that was why it was going over the moon. Did the Enemy have it? But... who was the Enemy?

"Oh demons." The adult voice sighed. "You're going insane, aren't you? Why are you afraid of a prickly pear?"

"Prickly pears are dangerous." He replied, his voice rough and scratching. "They like going over the moon."

"And lions sleep with lambs. Right."

"Maybe they do, maybe they don't." Eragon replied. What were they even talking about? "Depends on... depends on... if they're hungry." Yes, that sounded right.

"Gods, you _are_ insane." The voice moaned. "And I'm stuck down here with a bunch of dead, tortured skitzophrenics."

Skitz-a-what? Eragon's ears faltered; he couldn't keep up.

"One, two, three, eight." Eragon said. He could see the numbers in the ceiling. "Four, eight, twelve, fifteen, sixteen, thirty-two, forty-eight."

The person groaned. "Uru'baen would be better than this."

"What's Uru'baen?" Eragon asked. What was she talking about?

"How about this? Galbatorix- does that ring a bell?"

"Well..." Eragon turned the thought over, trying to link it to something. "I've heard it before."

The person sighed. "Okay, Eragon, here's the deal. You're a Dragon Rider. Your dragon is Saphira. You've been captured, and I doubt the Varden has half a clue where you are, and without you, the war is probably not going well. And their strongest fighter is now afraid of prickly pears. We're definitely doomed."

"Doomed? There is still hope!"

"So maybe you're not totally lost..." The prisoner mumbled.

"So... Galbatorix..." The name felt rough on Eragon's tongue, "He is evil?"

"More evil than the prickly pear can ever dream of being. He is the embodiment of evil, and you have to kill him."

"Me?"

"Yes, you. Are you deaf as well? I said you. You're the last free Dragon Rider- you're the only one who has the power to kill him."

"Am I?"

"Yes, Eragon. Gods, why did this happen now?"

"Can't the prickly pear kill him?"

The prisoner sighed. "The prickly pear wouldn't kill him."

"Why not?"

"Because the prickly pear doesn't exist!" The prisoner cried. "You're insane! Gods! Why do I have to be down here?"

"Then leave, if you don't like me." Eragon growled. "And don't lie about the prickly pear."

"Listen to me, Eragon." The prisoner snapped. "You're the only free Dragon Rider. Your dragon is Saphira. I bet she's in as much pain as you are; you have to get out of here and save her. If she dies, you and all of Alagaesia is doomed. Do you hear me? Doomed! We will all die. Do you know what dying means? It means you are put to sleep and never wake up again. That is what you should be afraid of. Because if you die, everyone else dies. That is the issue. Other people need you; you don't have a choice. So fight Karth and Furdor and kill them! Get out of here!"

"I... I don't know how too." Eragon whispered, because the prisoner's words did make him afraid. They did stir memories of other things; memories Eragon could hardly understand...

"You've done it once before, but they captured you again. Here's the plan; the next time they come, I'm going to get them angry. You're going to take the energy from the air, and from there, from them. Take all of it; go ahead and kill them. They deserve it. You're going to break your chains and get up; you probably should take me with you. We're the last people alive in here, after all. We're going to march out of here, grab our things, and run for our lives. We're going to find the Varden, and from there, find Saphira. There."

"What...?" Eragon asked. There was too much information; he couldn't handle a dose like that.

The prisoner sighed. "We'll take this a step at a time. First, when Karth and Furdor come again, I- that means me- am going to make them angry. They will not be happy, in other words. Alright so far?"

"Aye...?"

"Good. Then you- that means Eragon- will use your abilities to take their energy from them."

Eragon paused. "What?"

"You're a magician... you can take energy from other things." The prisoner sounded worried, like he was getting nervous.

"I am?"

"Yes, you are. So am I, but it's harder for me to control. That's why you're going to do it."

"I am?"

"Yes. You can, so get over the shock. You're going to do it, if its the last thing we do!" Defiance burst from the prisoner's tone; Eragon felt a jolt at the sudden volume. "And once you do that, you're going to break your chains. The things around your wrists and ankles."

"Aye."

"And then we're going to leave."

"Aye."

"You are the champion of the Varden; last I knew, they were coming this direction, so we'll skirt around the Empire's camp- the Empire is the enemy, Galbatorix's army- and find the Varden. From there, you'll find Saphira, and after that, you'll figure out how to kill the King."

"Where are you going to be?" Eragon asked; the thought of being alone created a hollow expanse in his chest, a void that craved company.

"I have some business to finish- I'm not the Varden's favorite person, after all. You'll have people to help you. Elves, dwarves- they love you. Most people love you, to be honest. You're the farmboy turned Shadeslayer."

"I am?"

"How about you just stop asking me that and just trust me? I'm not the insane one here."

"Neither am I!" Eragon protested. "You're the one who's acting like you're in charge. You're the one who... who... I have no reason to trust you!"

"You always made things more complicated than they were supposed to be." The prisoner sighed. "I was one of your friends from the Varden, I guess. More like aquaintances. We knew each other- let's leave it at that."

"And that means I should trust you?"

"Yes. We're both in the same problem, right? We both want to get out of this hole."

"Aye." Eragon began. "Five, eight, four, two."

"Are you speaking some kind of code? Sorry, Argetlam, but no one here actually understands it."

"Don't you see the numbers on the ceiling?" Eragon asked. "There's an eight- there's a lot of eights! And there's a two..."

"Eragon." The prisoner snapped. "Stop it."

"Just look!" Eragon argued. "They're all over the ceiling!"

"Oh gods." The prisoner whispered. "You _are_ insane."

"There's twelve." Eragon chirped.

The other prisoner fell silent, and strangely so; Eragon tried turning to see him, but his head was melded to the table.

The room, for once, was quiet. The whispering prisoners were all dead; Eragon was so accustomed to the smell, he didn't notice it anymore. And it was dark; the stars came out to smile at him again.

"Do you remember who Murtagh is?" The prisoner whispered.

Eragon paused. "The name rings a bell. Do you see the fifty on the ceiling? The stars made it."

"Mur- tagh." The prisoner repeated, insistent. "What about Thorn?"

"Who would name their child Thorn?" Eragon asked.

"No, Eragon. Murtagh is your brother; Thorn is his dragon. They are slaves of Galbatorix. Murtagh saved you from the Ra'zac, but he was captured after the battle of Farthen Dur. Galbatorix took his true name and since then, Murtagh has been your prime enemy, since the King has never confronted you. He's tried killing you; you've tried killing him. Remember now?"

Eragon froze, even though his skin was burning, the pain lost in his tumbling mind.

"Murtagh."

"Yes, Eragon. Murtagh."

"He's evil." Eragon growled, memories of their battles popping before his eyes. "He loves his power; he glories in death."

"So you hate him."

Eragon struggled to answer the question; what did he feel about Murtagh? They were brothers; they were family, as horrid as it sounded.

"Why do you ask?" Eragon snapped.

"Because I think he can help us." The prisoner replied. "I think, for once, all three of us could agree- Karth and Furdor need to die."

"Too bad we can't talk to him." Eragon replied, sarcasm dripping from his voice.

The prisoner chuckled darkly as a rock dropped into Eragon's stomach. The sudden silence sent a shudder down his spine; the other prisoner could only have been plotting something... bad. Eragon tried biting his lip, only to realize he didn't have lips anymore.

The prisoner did not fail to stun him. His words seared through Eragon's mind, biting, burning, breaking every frail ounce of his momentary reasoning.

His lucid laughter echoed through the cavern, growing, swelling in volume until it was the manatical laughter of someone enjoying the thought of another's pain.

"I can." He laughed. "And it'll take the King himself to stop me."

* * *

Remember, 15 reviews and I'll update on Tuesday rather than Thursday! I love ya'll!


	28. Chapter 28 Your Head on a Platter

**Nineteen. You people gave me 19 frickin' reviews. 19! **I love reading your theories... ha ha...

This is a Murtagh chapter- prepare for another side of Halia. Enjoy! I love you!

**Chapter 28: Your Head on a Platter**

Murtagh's mind left the emptiness of sleep; it wandered down the line of grogginess and awakening.

But Murtagh didn't want to wake up; he didn't want to face the cruel world. He didn't want to live his half-life anymore. He didn't...

_Murtagh!_ Thorn crowed. _Murtagh, my Rider, don't fall asleep again_.

Murtagh groaned; he wanted to sleep, to escape the nightmare that was his life.

_Wake up. I have news for you._ Thorn pressed.

Murtagh muttered something about falling asleep again.

_Wake up!_ Thorn's mind trampled over Murtagh's like a hundred elephants thundering down the savannah; _Wake up! You're hungry- food! Think of wonderful, delicious, mouth-watering food! Think of warm bread and cold water and sweet strawberries and juicy meat and-_

_Alright, alright! _Murtagh sighed; he was monstrously hungry. Starving, really. The images Thorn sent him didn't help; they danced across his eyes and prompted his stomach to growl.

But his body refused to move; everything moaned, stiff and sore. He tried doing something good, and pain always came out of it.

_Don't think like that._ Thorn sighed. _You did the right thing, protecting Halia. Get up, please? She's hardly slept all night. She was afraid you were dying._

_Dying?_

_Yes, dying. Kidasku showed her his memories of the Arena and what happened._ Thorn answered. _And... Shruikan got mad at him. Again. And... you were so still.._.

Murtagh's memory flickered to the brief image of the mangled prisoner; his brother, his fellow Rider, and once... his friend.

Eragon.

Thorn's enthusiasm flickered, seeing the same picture of agony. _What can we do? _

_I don't know._ Murtagh groaned. _I have enough problems of my own... someone always has to save Eragon. _

Thorn paused, but Murtagh could feel the need to tell him something slipping through their link.

_What, Thorn?_

_I'll tell you later. Eat now._ Thorn replied in a rush; he pulled his mind further from Murtaghs, trying to hide something. Murtagh didn't push him, reaching up to rub his weary face.

His arm throbbed; he wondered if he had mended it correctly. He ran practiced fingers up and down his limb; it felt fine. He didn't have the strength to open his eyes and look at it; he didn't want to get up.

_The King just checked on Shruikan. He wanted to make sure you weren't still bleeding on the Arena floor._ Thorn snarled. _He asked Shruikan to tell me to remind you that we leave for Dras-Leona in three days. _

Three days.

Both Rider and dragon groaned; neither wanted to go there. But the smell of food, of the same substance Thorn had mentioned not a minute before, wrestled Murtagh's attention away from civil duty and to personal care.

Murtagh blinked, orienting himself back to reality. Even his eyelids were tired; that was a first. He took a minute of steady breathing to prep himself for moving; his muscles protested and his bones popped as he sat up. A blanket fell off his shoulders- Halia. She was always so gentle and kind- except to the magicians, of course- and he could hardly understand how she could be so gracious in such an unforgiving place.

His stomach growled again.

Sighing, he pulled the blanket away and swung his feet over the edge, one hand rubbing his face, trying to banish the painful images of the previous night. Ugh- he smelled. And his clothes were still stained with blood, sweat, mud, and otherwise, filth. Food first, then a wash.

"My Lord?" Halia asked; her sweet voice washed over him like perfume, soothing and pleasant. She stood just inside the library door, watching him; he could feel her eyes on him, though he didn't look up at her. "Are you well?"

Murtagh checked his arms- they looked fine, though they were sore. "I believe so."

He glanced up and stifled back a gasp. Her long hair was pulled over one shoulder, tied with a ribbon; she wore a white, long sleeved shirt, and Murtagh suspected why. A mottled blue- and- black bruise tattooed her throat from where the King had grabbed her, and a scab puckered one of her cheeks. He hadn't healed her- how could he have forgotten? How could he have ignored her pain?

His legs protested as he stood- he ignored them and felt the magic flow through his gedwey ignasia, erasing the wounds he knew she had, including the slash on her arm.

She protested as soon as the magic touched her. "My Lord, you are-"

"Hush." Murtagh interrupted as he watched a cut on her cheek vanish. "I was trained to endure with nothing."

_He grew up with nothing_. Thorn corrected, speaking to both of their minds. _Eat, Murtagh. _

Halia disappeared inside the library, reappearing a moment later with a heaping platter of food. She had one for herself, though Murtagh only had eyes for his own breakfast.

_Tell her the story of when I hatched._ Thorn suggested as Murtagh shoved a slice of toast into his mouth.

_You told me to eat._ Murtagh replied.

_Do both._

_No. _

_Then I'll tell it. _

_You hardly remember it! _

_Shruikan remembers. He'll tell it. _

_Thorn-! _

Too late- Murtagh felt Shruikan's mind enter their connection; Murtagh pulled away from it, not wanting to hear the story again.

That had been the best and the worst day of his life.

He kept shoving food down his throat, ignoring taste and texture. He felt Halia's eyes glance up at him; Shruikan had started, then. How had his plate become empty? He looked at it again; yes, it was all in his gullet. He'd eat more later.

He knew Shruikan wasn't done with the story when he left the little bathroom of his; Halia's fingers nimbly worked on some sort of clothing, but her attention flickered to him. He didn't return the stare; he didn't want to see the pity he suspected was in her eyes.

With Zar'roc's comfortable company, Murtagh headed to the armory to train, to get his mind off of yesterday's catastrophe. It was early afternoon- he hadn't noticed before- which meant he had slept the entire morning and a little more, but he didn't mind. He should have expected it, at least. It explained why the King had inquired about him; surely there was some spell tracking his where-about.

The clash of arms was a comforting sound to Murtagh; something familiar, something he understood. And there was no lack in the armory, both in and out. A wide porch spilled over a private, walled courtyard where several dozen men trained; a spell muted the noise, so the rest of the castle wouldn't have to endure it. Murtagh detected only two magicians, one a student, the other the master.

Like Eragon had been to Oromis.

Murtagh banished the fleeting thought, locking it away in a recess of his mind, grinding his teeth together. It was not his fault that Oromis and Glaedr had died; it was not his fault, it was not his fault...

But it was his fault.

It was his fault that they were dead, that he had killed the two people who could have helped him. It was his fault-

_Stop!_ Thorn snarled. _Go help the pathetic two-legged over there who can hardly hold his sharp-tooth-blade. _

Thorn directed him towards a young soldier, practicing his forms with another who knew nothing about swordsmanship. It was quite obvious; Murtagh looked closer and grimaced at how badly they were faring. If they were at the next battle, they wouldn't last a minute in the fray.

_Then go set them straight!_ Thorn growled. _Stop moping._

Murtagh headed towards them; it would be for their own good.

"Stop flapping your arms like a bird." Murtagh began. "Your sword is part of you; act like it."

"Yes, sir." Both soldiers replied, staring at him boggle-eyed.

Murtagh looked closer at the smaller, younger soldier- the one Thorn had pointed out. Why did Murtagh recognize him? He had seen many soldiers, but this one struck a note in Murtagh's mind...

This was the same soldier who had been outside Helgrind, guarding the spot where the bastard magicians had captured Eragon.

"You've learned how to hold your sword." Murtagh mused.

"Thanks to you, sir." The boy replied. Murtagh doubted he was even sixteen.

"Now you have to learn to use it." Murtagh summoned a shield and handed it to the soldier; he would need it. "Now give me your best shot."

It was over in a moment- the soldier bounced on the balls of his feet, took a breath, and charged. Murtagh blinked and the boy laid sprawled on the ground; his attack was unplanned and sloppy.

Murtagh touched Zar'roc's tip to the small of the boy's back. "Dead. Get up. Exploit my weaknesses- attack me again."

And again, and again, and again.

Time passed in a blur; eventually, the nameless boy was summoned to his barracks, and Murtagh practiced with the magicians. Both were too inexperienced to be let into real battle; Murtagh could tell from the first spell. Murtagh ignored his hunger and kept fighting, kept training- he welcomed anything that distracted him.

He was in the midst of a duel when the armory fell suspiciously quiet. All the men who had been fighting froze, stunned, staring at the doorway; their expressions were of shock, adoration, and unconcealed lust.

Of course, they had not been at the Gala. They had never seen Halia, and to Murtagh, her beauty was especially out of place among the ranks of sweaty, rough men. She and Kidasku stood in the doorway, hesitant; well, Kidasku wasn't. He pranced in like the place was his and gave Murtagh a fanged smile. Halia followed him, her eyes watching the men all around her.

"Back to your training." Murtagh barked, glaring at the hordes of staring men. They dared not disobey; reluctantly, they turned to their swords and shields, and Murtagh imagined that the noise level resumed its previous volume.

"What are you doing here?" Murtagh asked, turning his accusing stare at Kidasku. He could barely look at Halia; seeing her sent a jolt down his spine, and he knew from her aura that she did not feel particularly secure.

"You can't expect us to just stay in there all day. The sun is shining, the sky is blue, and you want us to stay indoors? Please, Murtagh, have some consideration."

"My Lord?" Halia began, her gaze for once steady upon Murtagh. She was talking more; Murtagh wasn't sure what to make of it. But her green eyes paralyzed him; her voice went in one ear and floated around his mind. Keeping track of what she was saying while meeting her gaze took more effort than Murtagh realized. "I'm out of practice; it's a miracle I survived yesterday. I need training- I will not be vulnerable again- not like that."

Why wasn't she traumatized? Why wasn't she cowering in his room, like any rational being? Though she hadn't gone through much physical pain, the mental and emotional pain of the Gala and the Arena should have left her incapacitated and in shock.

_Halia is finding she is more resiliant than we thought._ Shruikan mused. _She has locked those memories away- her strength is returning, and her primary focus now is survival. _

_Is this normal?_ Murtagh asked. _I assumed she would be-_

_Don't assume anymore_. Shruikan ordered him. _At this point, she is unpredictable. I don't know what she will do next, nor do you. You came here to train, to block the pain and the memories; she probably came for the same reason. _

_Is she stable? Mentally? _

Shruikan sighed. _She has never fully recovered from her torturing. Why else are some memories out of reach, out of place? Why else can she not use your two-legged magic-tongue? _

_She did yesterday._

_But not out of her own control. It was like she was a dragon, Murtagh; she could not control it. _

_And should I let her be here? It's more dangerous- I can never know who will walk through the armory doors. _

_She may feel unsteady about the human men, but with you, she feels... somewhat safe. She understands that you do not want her to be hurt, and trusts your judgment. _

Thorn nudged Murtagh's mind playfully; Murtagh tried ignoring it.

"Well?" Kidasku asked, startling Murtagh from his distraction. "What are you simply standing there for?"

Kidasku never trained, Murtagh already knew that. He was a werecat; he didn't need too. Halia, though... Murtagh shoved the thought of her in a full-fledged battle away, it was too disconcerting.

The King had given her her sword for the Arena; she had it strapped around her hips, one hand on the hilt. Her face was expectant, and Murtagh knew he should send her back to the rooms. But who was he, to deny her the right of survival?

"Draw your sword." Murtagh told her, holding out his hand. She gave it to him without question, watching as he dulled the blade. Eragon had been the first one to teach him that spell; he banished the thought, repeating the process with Zar'roc.

"You seemed comfortable enough yesterday." He continued as they stepped away from each other, waiting to see who would strike first.

"It was purely instinct."

"Purely?" He asked, Zar'roc stabbing towards her. She batted the red sword away without a problem.

And thus began the deadly dance. Murtagh could feel the eyes of most, if not all, of the soldiers trained upon them; the Red Rider, Galbatorix's strongest pawn, fighting a she-elf. They circled each other, wary, looking for weaknesses and not finding anything suitable.

But the wait did not last long.

Murtagh lost his patience first; he charged her, silent, speeding, Zar'roc a blur of red. She blocked his blow, struggling as he added more pressure, using his added height to his advantage, forcing her down. With agility he couldn't match she elbowed him in the gut, losing half of her strength but distracting him enough that she slid out from underneath his weight and swung around to cut his back.

Murtagh, though, expected her attack. He spun around, Zar'roc humming as it flew low to cut her legs, but she jumped over it and arced her sword to clip his shoulder. He dodged and bit his tongue to stop himself from using the Ancient Language- that would be an unfair advantage.

They came closer and broke apart, the armory echoing with the clang of metal on metal. At times their skin nearly touched, close enough that Murtagh could feel the heat rising from her soft form, and then the duel would separate them again. He was glad she had pulled her hair back; he would have cut it off, and at times it swung around and whipped him; he hardly noticed, save for its flaming color.

At one point she nicked his arm; another time, Zar'roc bruised her side, but neither stopped, nor healed themselves. Time passed as the two fought; Murtagh couldn't keep track of the passing minutes, the passing parries and thrusts, the fleeting dodges and defenses and attacks. To be honest, he hadn't fought so long or so hard for so long, he lost himself in the adrenaline of the duel.

Until Halia faltered.

For one moment- one solitary moment- her attention flickered towards the doorway, her eyes fell on something distracting, and Zar'roc caught on her arm. The wound wasn't severe, but the internal bleeding was enough to get Murtagh's attention, though not Halia's.

Her eyes returned from behind them back to his face, and Murtagh immediately knew something was wrong. A blaze burned in her eyes, devouring all the gentleness and carefulness in her character- a hate so fierce, so unmerciful, that she abandoned all rationality and threw herself into the fight.

They were both defined by their anger, by their pain, and it suddenly appeared in Halia's bold attack. Hate and adrenaline fueled her every move; Murtagh could see it in her unexpected speed, her sudden strength, her uncharacteristic violence. Her sword was jagged and rough from where Zar'roc blocked it, and sweat splattered both of them.

But she was reckless, too bold for her own good, so angry that she lost control.

She flung herself at him, battering him down, murder in her eyes. What had he done? What had she seen? Was it his fault? Was she finally breaking down? Had the trauma finally taken over her? What had happened?

_Shruikan! _Murtagh cried, pounding on the sleeping dragon's mind. _Shruikan! Wake up! What's wrong with Halia? What happened? _

The old dragon couldn't keep up; Murtagh plunged his mind into his surroundings, immediately overwhelmed by the complexity of her aura.

It was terror and fury intermingled; adrenaline and the instinct of survival. She could feel the pain in her arm and side, but the emotional and psychological intensity drowned out the physical. And only three people in the world caused that kind of emotion for Halia- Murtagh knew that- and he swung so hard her sword was knocked to the ground, the duel was over-

He grabbed her shoulder and yanked her behind him, blind to the expression on her face, intent on protecting her, on fulfilling his promise.

He growled, his eyes turning red from the overwhelming anger boiling in his chest, glaring at Karth, who stood in the doorway of the armory. The maniac smile was gone, thankfully, but Murtagh could not place the aura of confidence and mischief in his position.

"What are you doing here?" He snarled. "Get out this instant."

The many soldiers froze, immediately realizing the danger, the toxic nature, the electric tension between Murtagh and Karth. Some backed up; some leaned forward, eager for another fight.

_Get her out of there! _Shruikan barked, finally awoken._ Immediately! Where's Kidasku? Where's that annoying werecat? Have him take her to the dragonhold, and you can deal with Karth. Now! _

Murtagh threw Kidasku a glare; the look said enough. It told the cat to get Halia the hell out of there; she came to train, and they had done just that. It was high time she left.

Kidasku, though, smiled innocently, and did not move. He remained leaning against the far wall, watching with his yellow eyes.

Murtagh felt Halia stiffen behind him; her aura grew, burning with such intensity he wondered how she hadn't caused another explosion yet. He heard her pick her sword back up; if she wanted to kill him, now was her chance, because he retracted the spell that dulled their blades.

_Murtagh!_ Thorn cried, _Furdor's coming in the back door!_

Murtagh knew they were planning something deadly; they couldn't kill him, which obviously left Halia- but why? Why were they victimizing her?

Murtagh plunged into Halia's mind, tossing aside her walls, which were considerably stronger than before. _Watch my back._ He told her. _I'll get Karth; can you handle Furdor? He's coming in the back._

_With pleasure_. She agreed, a note of unmistakable vengence in her tone. It was so unexpected, this new fury, that Murtagh didn't know what to make of it.

"Leave, Karth." Murtagh repeated, his tone icy cold.

"Why, Murtagh, why so angry? I have done nothing wrong." The magician argued.

Murtagh could think of a few things those bastards had done wrong. If he could just kill them...

"Hello, Furdor."

Halia's sweet voice washed over the armory, thawing out all the cold suspicions of the rough men there. It was the voice of an innocent dove, a perfect angel, one who had never known pain or death or fear...

It held nothing of the fury Murtagh had seen, none of the burning agony from days past.

"How is your hand?" She continued, just as innocently. But Murtagh saw it, just like at the Gala; the lioness prowling in her mind. She was the one, after all, who had chopped off his left arm.

"Both of you, leave." Murtagh snapped. "Before I make you."

"Go ahead and try, Son of Morzan." Karth encouraged him; "You are alone; we all know the elf can't use magic. Two of us against you; you can't win."

"You are blinded by your greed." Murtagh replied, his suspicion confirmed; they had done to Halia what Kialandi and Forona had done to Oromis- they had stolen her ability to control magic. "We all know I am more powerful than both of you; if it weren't for the fact that the King had interfered, both of your corpses would be rotting in the Arena."

Karth laughed mirthlessly, though Murtagh heard a note of contempt, and the magician's aura was disturbed; their plan had already faltered.

"Why do you say nothing, Lord Furdor?" Halia continued; it seemed she had talked more that day than ever before. "Are you afraid? Distraught that your schemes have not come to fruition? I can't say I'm especially sorry for you; rather, I'm... disappointed. I wish I could have kept your hand; it would go well with my collection, which will finally be complete when I serve Galbatorix your head on a golden platter. I believe I shall put an apple in your mouth; but you will be so much more than a stuffed, roasted pig when I'm through with you." She paused; Murtagh did not have the strength to stop her, nor did he want too.

"Perhaps I will drown you; that sounds painful. Or should I simply freeze your skin? You've nothing to lose; your face is the ugliest I've ever seen. Perhaps I should drug you, make your senses twice as sharp, so the pain is quadrupled. Yes... that sounds like a pleasant experience, especially when I brand you. Pure flame to the skin is not a pleasant experience, I've heard."

Sarcasm. It dripped from her every word, hung in the air, suspended by shock and glorious surprise; Murtagh couldn't get enough of her words.

"But surely that pain is not enough; the debt you owe me must be paid. No; I must pour flaming tar down your throat; I must burn your feet and make you walk across spikes. I must rip your fingers off one by one; I must cut off your nose, stab out your eyes, tear your arms and legs off of your body-"

"And then my ears and my lips, I've already heard this." Furdor sighed, faining boredom. But his aura was very different; the opposite, really. It was worried; but Halia's revenge was just beginning.

"No!" Her tone lost its angelic qualities, cutting through the silent stupor, the spell her words put over the gathering crowd. "No, my Lord Furdor, you will keep your ears. That way, you will hear each and every man, woman, and child that shrieks in horror at the sight of your mangled and twisted form. And you will know that all of your schemes were in vain, that all of your goals were worthless and futile, that your life was nothing but a black, twisted, and empty. And then, when the people are so disgusted with you that they plead, that they beg for me to take you away, to hide the disgusting creature before them, I will give you to Shruikan.

"I can't imagine that he'd be any more merciful. Dragons are crafty creatures; I'm sure he can teach you pain. I'm sure he has had plenty of time to devise some new method of torture to test on you; and still, I will not pity you. No one will, for your soul is blackened and damned, and I look forward to the day when I give Galbatorix your head."

Murtagh couldn't have said it better himself.

"I'm sorry, Lady Halia." Furdor smiled; "But your dreams are just as empty as your words."

And he threw a ball of flames at them. Murtagh had been hearing the exchange, not watching it, but his shield was ready. Both could feel the heat, but the plasma did not touch them; it swirled around them, blinding and momentarily hiding the magicians.

The fire faded, and both had vanished. Murtagh warily scanned the armory; most of the soldiers had run, knowing a fight between three of Galbatorix's strongest magicians and an elf would be exciting, but detrimental to their health.

_Furdor cast an invisibility spell on himself._ Halia told him. _He's hiding behind the archery targets. _

_Karth is just inside the forge doorway. _Murtagh began; _I'm going to make you invisible, and you must follow Kidasku to the dragonhold-_

_No, please. _She pleaded; her tone was begging, but her motive was revenge_. If you manage to subdue them, I can kill them. Please, Murtagh; I must do something worthwhile._

It was the first time she had ever called him Murtagh; he didn't mind. But the thought of her fighting Karth or Furdor, unable to use magic...

_I can do this. _She urged; _Shruikan's watching my back; Thorn has yours. I'll spring them; catch them off guard. I won't need magic. _

_You always need magic. _Murtagh argued.

_Then I'll set off an explosion or two. I am stronger than you think- I can defeat them. Kidasku will help, if I need any. _

Murtagh gritted his teeth, still disturbed by the idea of her fighting those bastard magicians...

_Let her. _Shruikan said. _Let her prove her strength. But Halia, remember: save one for me. _

Murtagh growled; this plan was so foolhardy-

_Make me invisible. _Halia told him; he could hear her shifting behind him, bouncing on the balls of her feet. _I'll grab a bow and rat him out, then attack. Kidasku can distract him. You know where Karth is; if we force them together, we can pull the same stunt on them that they did to us. _

_Fine, fine, I'll help. _Kidasku grumbled. _On count of three?_

_One. _Halia began.

_Tw- _Kidasku began, but Murtagh beat him to the punchline.

At two and a quarter, he made Halia and himself invisible, and instantly she was gone. Kidasku scurried in the opposite direction, towards the door of the armory; Murtagh sprinted towards the entrance to the forge.

Karth was hiding behind the door like any little child playing hide-and-go-seek. The spell for a fireball was on his lips, the Red Rider could hear it; Murtagh improved his shield and took a few silent steps forward.

Neither side moved; Murtagh wasn't sure if Karth knew he was so close. Murtagh improvised, whispering a spell that knocked over a shield, leaning against the wall across from Karth. The magician didn't take the bait- but he did move.

And Murtagh put the dome around them- he smiled as their own trap took Karth once more. But why did they want Eragon? Saphira? Halia? They were not working from the King's orders; what did they have to gain? Glory? Honor? If anything, their stunts would anger the King eventually...

_Pay attention_. Thorn began. _Watch the archery range- you're boring over there. Halia is not._

Murtagh turned his eyes to where Thorn pointed; he glared, wishing now that he hadn't made Halia invisible. The spell to see invisible things was too complicated, he dared not use it without an eldunari on hand. But the twang of a bow caught his ear; as soon as the arrow left her fingers it became visible, and Murtagh watched it sink into a target with a thick thud.

"Coward." Halia snarled. "Running to your mother, Furdor? Don't think you can get away with all the atrocities you have committed. Justice will find you, and she will not be merciful."

_Halia, shut it_. Murtagh snapped. _He'll flank you. _

_I'll have a better chance of hitting him if I know where he is._ She replied. _I'm infuriating him so he'll speak. _

Murtagh gnawed on his lip; if Furdor attacked, he couldn't help her, since Karth hadn't realized his predicament...

Or not.

The magician finally found the edge of his prison. Karth whipped around, a spell on his lips, fighting for a weakness. But Murtagh was more than prepared; he waited until Karth put a dome over him, and decided it was the time for the ultimate test of strength.

There was one dome over Karth, and one over Murtagh. But the Red Rider had a plan- Thorn had suggested it- and put a second over himself. He could faintly hear Halia insulting Furdor; it wouldn't be long before he snapped.

Murtagh put a second, smaller dome over himself; all the domes were spheres, to be correct; so he stood in two circles that extended in radii around him.

And he enlarged it like inflating a balloon; he worked until the two domes were pressing against each other, Karth trying to keep his the same size, and Murtagh pounding against it, his sphere wanting to expand.

One minute of Murtagh forcing his dome against Karth's; the magician had a vein in his neck that had swollen.

Two minutes, and Murtagh could see Karth's hands beginning to shake. Murtagh had a single drop of sweat on his forehead, trickling down the side of his face.

Two and a half minutes, and Murtagh was faintly aware of a roar to his right- Furdor was screaming profanities and Halia had fallen silent. There was a shriek of pain, and Murtagh looked through Thorn's eyes to see that an arrow had found Furdor; they could not see magician, but the arrow was visible, as well as the fountain of blood that spewed from his wound.

"That's for Kithrin!" Halia cried.

Another twang, and another arrow found its mark; Murtagh heard the sickening thud of flesh giving way to metal.

"That's for Shruikan!" She yelled.

And Murtagh turned back to Karth. His entire frame was trembling with effort; another drop of sweat ran down into Murtagh's eyes. The magician was so weak...

And Murtagh smiled at him; the expression of domination and authority.

And he plunged into his mind.

Karth collapsed, overwhelmed by the strength of Murtagh's multiple attacks, and Murtagh found the one thing he wanted: a single image, a single memory-

It was of Eragon; he was laying on his back, staring up at the ceiling of Helgrind, maimed, tortured, deformed, hideous, gross, and utterly helpless-

And then Saphira, bleeding, wounded, just as spoiled as her Rider.

Here was the proof he had been searching for-

And Murtagh smiled.

* * *

Another fifteen and I'll update Thursday! You people are awesome!


	29. Chapter 29 An Unexpected Visitor

Sorry it's so late! I'm sorry! My day was unexpectedly crazy- sorry! Thank you to Kilana89 for reminding me to update. ;P

Anyway, you people never fail to stun me. Another 19 reviews! You people are FRICKIN' AWESOME!

Most of you caught the Princess Bride reference... I like that movie too!

SimplySupreme- yes, Halia probably could've whupped Murtagh, but she had too much raw anger to control herself. And she was distracted.

Lobo de Fuego- thank you for the correction! Formora, Formora, Formora... It'll take a few times before it lodges itself into my head.

That one guy Jim- can you please sign in? If you're confused, tell me what you're confused about! I want to talk to you!

I love the rest of you too, but I figure you people want the chapter more than my rambles... so here you go! This is, by far, the longest chapter. Enjoy!

**Chapter 29: An Unexpected Visitor**

The walk back to Murtagh's apartments had been silent, even for Kidasku. But as soon as the door shut their stoic masks fell away; they turned to each other and smiled, all three. Murtagh, Halia, and the werecat. No one could contain their giddy euphoria; nothing could dull their triumph.

The magicians would have died if the King had not come. When Galbatorix arrived, Karth was unconscious, sprawled face first in the dirt; Halia had stuck Furdor with not one, not two, but four arrows; he was bleeding profusely and on the verge of darkness. The King was so angry he couldn't speak; Murtagh ran out at the first opportunity, and Halia followed, invisible until they were a safe distance away.

Kidasku was the first to start laughing. His high pitched, throaty laugh bounced around the room as a giggle- a giggle!- slipped through Halia's lips. Murtagh couldn't banish his smile; he had never felt so... he didn't have a word for it. Not necessarily happy, and not drunk on his power, but... satisfied. Karth and Furdor would be weak for a few days; a few days of peace. And they would be afraid, because they had proven once and for all that Murtagh and Halia together were stronger than Karth and Furdor together.

It was satisfaction, justice, for what those bastards had done. Not total justice, but it was a start.

And Murtagh smiled.

He had solid evidence- two pieces of it- that Karth and Furdor were acting of their own accord and had captured Eragon and Saphira. Eragon was at Helgrind, undoubtedly; Saphira's location was the next question.

_No, it's not_. Thorn growled. _I told you I had something to tell you. _

_ What? Thorn, are you telling me...? _

_ Yes, I am_. The crabby dragon snapped. _You're too busy to listen to me. _

_ I'm sorry Thorn- _

_ I know it's not your fault. But please- do me a favor. Do yourself a favor- get out of the castle. _

_ But Thorn, you just told me-_

_ You're a better listener when your mind is cleared. Being in this castle doesn't help; go into the city. Find a tavern; do something remotely enjoyable. _

_ I enjoy your company. _

Murtagh smiled as Thorn's warmth seeped their connection. I'm glad you hurt those two-legged, round-eared spell casters. Life here won't be so-

-Insane-

-Unpredictable-

-Wild-

-Bloody.

Rider and Dragon sighed simultaneously, their emotions tangling as they studied their unpredictable life.

_Go._ Thorn encourage him. _Go and do something interesting. _

_ I think I've had enough excitement for one day. _

_ No- I forbid you from staying in this castle!_ Thorn chuckled. _I'm banishing you until you have something fresh to tell me. _

_ And then will you tell me about Saphira?_

Thorn's emotions took on a reddish hue; a warm seeped through their bond.

_Are you blushing? _Murtagh asked.

_No!_ Thorn protested. _You definitely need to leave; you're seeing things. _

_ I think-_

_ I'm telling Shruikan you're banished for the rest of the day. _Thorn improvised. _I'm telling him you should bring Halia and Kidasku. _

A moment later, as Halia gasped for air from her barely-contained laughter, her eyes flickered to Murtagh.

She was... happy. Murtagh could tell from the glint, the sparkle of joy in her eyes, the warm flame of hope and life that made her green eyes brighter and even more paralyzing. Her face glowed; it radiated satisfaction, peace-

And for that one moment- that one, precious moment- Murtagh saw the Halia who was carefree, the elf who had not been tortured, stalked, traumatized; he saw Halia before all the terrors that happened to her.

And it made him happy, like her joy was contagious. The foreign tug in his chest was not battered down this time; it was accepted, even enjoyed, though Murtagh had no idea what it was or what it meant.

And the moment after he realized he wasn't fighting it anymore, his mind began breaking. The fissure he had felt in the Arena began again; the crack running down his mentality split a little further, widening far enough that it was painful-

And it was gone.

Murtagh wondered if the sharp, sudden pain was a figment of his own imagination; he couldn't tell. Thorn, however, felt it too; neither knew what it was, and Shruikan disturbed their questions.

_Get out, all of you._ The dragon barked. _Get out and breathe some clean air. _

Halia looked at Murtagh again; the flame was still burning in her eyes, mingled with an unspoken question.

Murtagh felt his cheek twitch- was that a smile? He wasn't sure; his hand reached out and a spell played upon his lips to ensure her safety in Uru'baen, and by the time it was finished, Halia looked...

Human.

Her sharp jawline and cheekbones had been rounded, like her ears; her face was a tad wider, but she lost none of her beauty, just some of her ethereal qualities. To Murtagh, she seemed a little more... normal. But Halia could never be described as normal; she was the definition of beauty and grace and-

_Go._ Shruikan urged. _Go, while there is still daylight. _

Halia disappeared for a moment and returned wearing a pale blue dress; it was more human than her leather pants, and Murtagh handed her one of his cloaks as he wrapped Zar'roc in black leather, hiding the obvious red. Kidasku couldn't be helped, nor did he want it.

Halia still wore her breathtaking smile as they walked down the hallways of the castle; it only grew as they passed through the arches of the castle's wall. Kidasku kept chattering, but his words went in one of Murtagh's ears and out the other as the Rider basked in the glory of Halia's joy.

The sun smiled down on the city, like it shared in Halia's happiness. The city swarmed with life; as soon as they set foot on the road, a wave of business washed over them; vendors advertising their wares, people haggling for a better deal on the overpriced items, children screaming as they played tag through the crowds. A gentle breeze caressed Murtagh's cheek; not hot, but not cold, just the perfect balance. The air was dry and carried a hint of the salty sea; Murtah couldn't imagine how that touch had gotten over the Spine.

"It's so blue." Halia murmured, her face upturned, examining the cloudless sky.

Murtagh's cheek twitched again. "It's always been that blue."

"I'm not sure." She smiled again- was she teasing him? "It simply seems bluer than before."

Murtagh realized it had been days- weeks- perhaps even months since she had been outside of the palace, away from its molding walls and dark ceilings. Yes, he realized, the sky must've looked very blue to her.

"You should see it from up there." Murtagh added, sighing. "When you're flying... the sky seems to never end."

Her smile grew so large it crinkled the corners of her rounded eyes. "From here it seems like it never ends."

She was right, as usual; nothing but the castle behind them blocked the heaven above them, and they could see it stretch unimpeded from horizon to horizon.

"It's best in the Haradac." Murtagh murmured.

"Are either of you listening to me?" Kidasku asked, annoyed. No, they hadn't. "Do you not smell that apple pastry? Does it not make your mouth water?"

Murtagh suddenly remembered that he hadn't eaten since he had woken up; it seemed like such a long time ago.

"Hungry?" Murtagh asked.

The vendor- a teenage girl with eyes too big for her face- stared at Halia in obvious awe and jealousy; but in the end, she managed to sell them three of the pastries. With one bite the warm, comforting taste of sweet apple exploded in Murtagh's mouth, soothing and wonderful; the King's cooks couldn't compare with it. The filling stuck to his hands; Kidasku was so eager several globs caught in his mop of hair. Murtagh chuckled at the sight of the werecat trying to lick the goodness from his hair; Halia choked as she tried to swallow, and quickly recovered.

Her eyes met Murtagh's once more; he embraced the electric shudder that raced down his spine, and an unimpeded smile broke across his face as he caught sight of some filling on her cheek.

"You- you have some... on your cheek." He managed to say. Her face flushed with embarrassment as she hastily wiped it away, and then her eyes exploded with amusement.

"On your chin." She laughed.

Murtagh smiled as he ran his thumb over the spot; he hadn't shaved that day, and it was obvious.

They continued down the road, eying all the vendor's wares. Halia's eyes seemed to absorb every detail of the city; the colors, the people, the smells, the food, the shops- she found everything. But she was quiet, as usual; Murtagh wondered what sparked her unexpected outburst in the armory. Her blaze has fizzled down; it was still there in her eyes- it always had been- but its ferocity had slipped down to that of a single flame.

And Murtagh knew that she could re-stoke those flames whenever she wanted too.

"Are we just going to mill around the city the whole day?" Kidasku asked. "Or do we want to go somewhere in particular? Are we going to have purpose?

"Nevermind- I've already decided for us. Follow me, two-leggeds! We're off to the races; there's some excitement there. Fun for the whole family."

Murtagh rolled his eyes. "How safe is it?" He still had to uphold his vows.

Kidasku paused. "Define safe."

Murtagh glared at the werecat, stopping, keeping Halia one step behind him. "If-"

"Don't panic, Murtagh." Kidasku yawned. "It can get a little... rough, at times, but it's the middle of the afternoon- no ones going to be drunk yet. And anyway, you're one of the strongest magicians anywhere, so you have nothing to fear. The King doesn't attend horse races, Murtagh."

Kidasku began bouncing down the road, cheerful as ever; Murtagh, though, paused, torn between trusting the werecat or keeping Halia safe. "We're leaving if there's anything close to danger." He told her, feeling her eyes on his face.

Murtagh kept his hand a little closer to Zar'roc after that. They walked down the zig-zagging roads, pausing to admire the wares a few times. Murtagh keenly noticed the careful attention Halia paid to the book store they passed- books were such a rarity in Uru'baen- and considered buying something new for her.

Kidasku, though, blazed on, determined to reach the races before the next one started, as he said. Murtagh didn't argue with the werecat, but he didn't understand his eagerness either.

Halia had lapsed back into silence. Murtagh dared a glance at her and found that her smile had not totally vanished; it still pulled at the corner of her lips, still brightened her already-sharp eyes. As always, they absorbed each detail of the city; Murtagh wondered what she was thinking.

_Then ask her._ Thorn pressed. _It doesn't hurt to wonder. _

_ She's had to give up enough._ Murtagh sighed, _No need to strip her of her last sanctuary. _

Murtagh could feel Thorn's smile through their connection. _But she has the option, this time. Ask her something mundane- what she thinks of the city. Ask her if it reflects the elven design still. Ask her if she thinks it's crude and filthy. _

_ Everything must be crude and filthy compared to Ellesmera. _

_ We don't know that._ Thorn argued. _She might, but we don't. Just ask her. _

Murtagh stole another glance in her direction; she was staring at the sky again, like she had never seen anything more beautiful. _I don't want to upset her. What if she doesn't remember? Or if she doesn't want to say? _

_ By asking her, you're giving her the choice to answer. Stop making excuses; don't be a coward. _

_ I'm not being a coward. _

_ Yes, you are. Are you afraid of her, Murtagh? _

_ No! _

_ Then stop acting like it. Stop being ridiculous. _Thorn grumbled._ I want to know, too. _

_ Why don't you-_

_ You have till the count of seven._ The snobby dragon decided. _One._

_ Thorn!_

_ Two. _

_ Now who's being ridiculous? _

_ Are you afraid? Three, by the way. _

_ Why are you being so stubborn?_ Murtagh grumbled.

_Four..._

"Halia," Murtagh began, fighting down the embarrassment in his face, "Does the city still hold the marks of being elven-made?"

_There._ Thorn said, smug. _That wasn't so hard, was it? _

_ You weren't the one saying it._ Murtagh barked.

Halia's eye met his for one moment, then scanned the city. Her feet slowed, and Kidasku pranced on, not noticing how she had stopped. Murtagh shifted as she turned a full 360 degrees, her eyes landing lastly on the castle itself.

Murtagh cursed himself for asking as the joy that had been in her eyes drained away, replaced by pain, and dare he say it, sorrow. The corners of her lips fell, no longer hinting at a smile.

"Yes." She whispered. "The towers... they branch off the rest of the building- no pun intended, I was about to relate it to a tree..." She bit her lip, her eyes moving more quickly this time. "And the-"

"What are you doing?" Kidasku snapped, suddenly appearing at Murtagh's side. "Come on! We haven't got all day. Not by any means; we're losing daylight. I know both of you can run like demons are chasing you, so please, pick up the pace." He turned and flounced away, throwing a glance over his shoulder.

Halia tore her eyes away from the castle, the ghost of her unspoken words lingering in her eyes. She kept her gaze fixed on the road; Murtagh ran a hand through his hair- it needed to be cut, again- and followed, wishing he had picked a different question.

At the next intersection, a young boy stood on a box, singing at the top of his little lungs. He had blond hair that curled around his ears and wore ratty clothing, stained by what Murtagh guessed was blood and dirt. He seemed four or five, six at most, and thin to the extreme. A street urchin, then.

Murtagh shuddered as he remembered a lifetime long before- he had once been one of those orphaned, wild children. That life of pickpocketing and running was better than the one he lived; Thorn didn't argue.

The little boy clasped his hand behind his back and rocked back and forth, singing his song with all his heart and soul like it was the definition of Truth and Goodness. Murtagh's cheek twitched again at the sight of the growing elation in Halia's face; she was charmed by the boy.

Coming from the boy's lips, the song could have been the secret to destroying Galbatorix's power.

_There was an old man from Be-la-ton-a, who had the most terrible- stutter. He-e-e said, p-p-p-please, pass the ch-ch!-ch-ch-ch-cheese! And the b—b-b-b-b-b-b-b-b-b-b-b-b-b-b!- butter!_

The growing crowd laughed and cheered, the little boy flushing with pride, taking a gracious bow at his audience.

"Are there many orphans?" Halia asked.

Murtagh nodded. "Too many."

"But doesn't anyone care for them?" She pressed. "They're children- they deserve the best society has to offer."

"Uru'baen has nothing to give them save a scrap of meat or bread, when they're lucky. When they're older, the boys can become soldiers, the girls, bar maids; they have little chance at anything greater."

"Why does Galbatorix let them be, living among the alleys and picking through other's waste? Why does he do nothing?"

Murtagh paused, trying to formulate an answer that would reflect the King's true person. "He only works for his own benefit; helping these children would do him no personal good. Of course, the economy and populace would improve, but in the end, the King does not care." Murtagh's sorrowful eyes turned back to the little boy, who was preparing for his next song. "For their sakes, I hope he takes no notice of them."

"He could do them no good?"

Murtagh sighed. "He can educate them, train them in magic, give them food in their bellies and a roof over their heads, but in the end, they will be slaves, bound to repay him the debt. He would never let them live their own lives."

"Of course, you would know." Kidasku interrupted. "I remember the first time I met you, Murtagh. Were you five, or six? I don't recall- you probably don't remember."

"Don't assume." Murtagh began, echoing Shuikan's words. "I remember rather vividly. You were a cat that night."

"Yes, yes... we were down by the farmer's market, weren't we?"

"Where else would I have been? I was hungry."

"And determined." Kidasku chuckled. "That vendor couldn't catch you to save his life."

"Not many could."

"I asked you who were were."

"I told you it didn't matter."

Kidasku smiled, showing his fanged smile. "You had a black eye."

"I always had a black eye."

"Too true!" The werecat laughed.

Murtagh's cheek twitched again; memories of a better time flashed before his eyes, particularly the night he first saw the vibrantly colored werecat. A shudder ran down his spine; someone was watching him. He immediately knew it was not Halia; her gaze sent lightning though his system, but this was different, like a freezing stone had been dropped in his stomach.

He swiveled around; glaring at the crowd, scanning for anyone looking in his general direction.

"My Lord?" Halia whispered; Kidasku was jabbering away still, but she at least had noticed.

"Keep walking." Murtagh replied, barely moving his lips. "Look forward. Pay attention to Kidasku."

She set her sights on the werecat, though Murtagh knew that she had other ideas.

"Who is it?"

"I can't tell."

_Thorn?_

_ I can't tell the two-leggeds apart._ He replied, anxious. _Shruikan's watching too; we don't know who to look for. _

_ Watch for Karth and Furdor. _

_ They'd be easy to spot._ The red dragon replied. _They're fat and bald, and the sun is out. It'd reflect on their scales-that-are-not-scales. _

_ They could be disguised. _

_ Bah!_ Thorn snorted. _They may be crafty, but not that crafty. _

_ Arrogant dragon._

_ Paranoid two-legged. _

Murtagh glanced towards the dragonhold; he could see its entrance from the road. He knew Thorn was looking at him; he managed a smile.

He hadn't smiled so much in so long, just like Halia hadn't spoken in so long.

"Is the city more interesting than I am?" Kidasku accused them. "Halia, I'll give you the excuse of being a guest, but Murtagh, please, what-"

"Hush." Murtagh snapped. "Watch."

"There's people. Incredible." Kidasku huffed. "Who are you seeing, Murtagh? Your ghosts?"

Murtagh stiffened, ram-rod straight, fury spiking through his blood. He turned two blood-red eyes upon the werecat, his fist trembling, lusting for the werecat's blood- one blow wouldn't damage Kidasku too badly... nor would two...

Halia beat him to the first blow.

He hand slapped across the werecat's face, too fast for a human. A blaze was in her eyes- Murtagh's fist in mid-air as he stared at her, incredulous.

"Don't speak of that which you do not know." She hissed. "How dare you. You should be ashamed of yourself; you-"

A sudden drain of strength distracted Murtagh; it was his first physical chain from the King- a necklace that stopped anyone from scrying him. Eragon had one; Murtagh had his first. It glowed with life as someone tried finding Murtagh; the episode hardly lasted five seconds.

_Murtagh?_ Thorn pressed; _What's going on? It must be the same person- in the same vicinity, only they can't see you anymore! _

_ And they don't know about my wards_. Murtagh realized.

"It's not Karth or Furdor." Murtagh told them, interrupting Halia. "Come."

"And where do you think you're going?" Kidasku asked. "What about the race?"

"Lead on, if you're so inclined." Murtagh snapped. "We need to move, and I won't-"

_-wait for-_

"-any self-absorbed-"

_-inconsiderate werecat-_

"-who thinks he-"

_-deserves everyone-_

"-to bow to-"

_-his every whim! _Thorn snarled.

"Stop doing that- it hurts my mind." Kidasku snapped. "Whatever you're planning, you better tell us quick, because if it ruins my arrangements for the afternoon I am going to be a very, very, unhappy werecat."

The sensation of being watched spiked down Murtagh's spine once more. Thorn shuddered at the crawling touch; his red eyes fruitlessly scanning the crowds. Murtagh reached forward with his mind and found Halia's foreign mentality; if anyone in the crowd was a magician, she would certainly stand out.

_There is a vendor directly behind you. On my count, take ten seconds to walk that direction. Wait four seconds, then turn and walk into the alley behind the shop. _

Halia absorbed his words with an unfailing concentration, and dare he even say it, trust. He didn't understand it at all.

_In the alley is an archway. Find the loose brick on the left side and pull it out. There is a map of the city in the nook there; use it to find the racetrack. Don't let Kidasku lead you where he wants you to go. _

_ Where will you be? _She asked.

_Looking for the stalker here. I'll meet you within ten minutes; if I don't come… go to the barracks. There is an armory there. The blacksmith's name is Htleir. Tell him the Black Hand sent you, and he'll get you back to the palace safely. Go to the dragonhold._

Murtagh felt her immediate acceptance of his plan; he waited for a surge in the crowd, then-

_Go now. One. _

_ Two._

He turned away as she melted into the mass of bodies, still counting. It was all to keep her safe, of course; he wished he had dyed her hair a less noticable color. But he liked her hair…

_Four. Five._

She could make it on her own; she was strong, and had direction. Murtagh broke his attention from her and reached out to the rest of the crowd, tasting the flavors of the many minds. None were too foreign- that is, all were human- and so he looked for magicians; they were easy to find, for they were the ones to throw shields around themselves.

He felt one presence recede, run from his presence. The strangest part of that mind was that Murtagh recognized it, but who…?

He felt for Halia again- she was in the alley.

Knowing she was safe, Murtagh charged after the magician, weaving through the mass of bodies to find them. He passed the little boy who was singing, the vendor selling the pastries, the mapmaker Kidasku described-

He felt like a child playing hide-and-go-seek with tag.

Murtagh kept an iron fist around the magician's mind, prying for any sort of weakness. All he found were walls, touched by a type of spell Murtagh didn't recognize. This magician was clever, and alarmed, Murtagh realized it was fading, slipping away, vanishing-

Gone.

Murtagh froze, shocked. No magician could just make their mind disappear- that was impossible. Absurd. It had to be a spell, then, that masked their mentality. Murtagh plunged once more into the sea of thoughts around him, but again, found nothing.

He leaned against an archway- a tribute to Uru'baen's original architects- and tried gathering the few clues he had. It had to be a spy, one who hadn't known he had wards against scrying, who was in the city, and was a crafty magician. Perhaps one who knew the Old Magic, like Kidasku?

Possible, but unlikely.

He was about to reach out for Halia's mind- it burned bright enough that Murtagh was confident he could find it- when another realization struck him in the chest.

He had left Halia alone in Uru'baen.

Yes, he had given her a plan, a method within the madness, but all the same. She could be in danger, something could have gone wrong- no, no, Shruikan would never let any harm come to her, and even Murtagh had to admit that he had given her the safest path. He didn't want her to ever be in pain again. But she-

Murtagh nearly choked as a thought slapped him in the face.

She could leave.

She could vanish within the crowds, disappear in the city, and never be seen again. Here was her golden opportunity to leave, to escape-

Would he even stop her?

No. With a sinking heart, he realized the Truth- she needed to leave. It would be right to let her go, to let her return to where she belonged. He would never see her again, never speak to her again, never hear her charming laughter or smell her lavender scent, never have anything to do with her again.

The fissure in his mind grew, splitting a little further down his skull, fracturing his reason. He didn't want her to leave, he wanted to hear her sing again, hear her laugh again, see her eyes light up with pleasure and burn with passion-

No. It was selfish of him to keep her locked in his prison of an apartment, to keep her in danger. It was sick and twisted and utterly wrong. Murtagh took a steadying breath- if she was gone, so be it. He thought. He could withstand it. He could bear it.

Could he?

He fought down his doubts, steeling his resolve to let her leave. But what if-? She was an elf in the heart of the Empire; she wouldn't get past the city walls. No, no- she was smarter than that, and had an uncanny ability to survive. She could make it to Ellesmera.

Could she?

Of course she could. Murtagh ignored the fact that he didn't want her too.

Putting his hood on, Murtagh slipped back into the crowd, determined to get to the racetrack and not distracted. If she was gone, so be it- how many times would he have to tell himself?- and he would let her go. He would not follow her, he would not track her, he would move on with his miserable, twisted existence and wish the best for her.

There was no trace of the spy.

He wandered down the alleyways, avoiding the hustle and bustle of the main streets. And eventually, he reached it- the racetrack. A wooden fense lined the torn, dusty path, and people of all ages leaned against the rail, screaming and shouting. So much for 'fun for the whole family', as Kidasku had put it; it was a madhouse. The stables were opposite Murtagh, on the other side of the track. He could hear the whinnying of horses, people arguing- the mood was competitive. A drunk man was being dragged from the premises, and three others were gambling in a corner. A booth had been set up for bets; Murtagh imagined Kidasku tricking the vendor out of his money.

But Murtagh didn't really care about Kidasku, his eyes scanning the track, the people, the scene-

Halia was no where to be found.

The rock that dropped into his stomach was heavier, harder than the ones in the past. It was hot, too; it burned him, scalding his mind.

She was gone.

Gone.

Gone.

Gone.

Thorn was silent, and Murtagh suddenly felt…

"So he isn't dead." Kidasku quipped. "And he isn't lost in the city, and he isn't off chasing some stalker. Wonderful."

Murtagh turned, half-dreading what he would see, only to find Halia and Kidasku sliding up to him in the crowd. Was it just his imagination, or was she more beautiful than before? He couldn't tell, and it took a monumental effort to tear his gaze away from her.

"Exciting, isn't it?" Kidasku gushed, gesturing to the track. "I'll bet five silver pieces on the palomino." He pranced off to the betting booth, leaving Halia and Murtagh in the crowd.

Her face was expectant. Murtagh read the unspoken question in her eyes, stiffly shaking his head. "Varden." He said.

She nodded. "You didn't find them?"

"No."

Her gaze bore into his mind; it was surprised, and heavy. "The King does not have spells that bind you to capture spies?"

"He has… holes in his orders." Murtagh answered. "I have to find the loopholes, of course."

"That must be irritating."

"That I have to play the King's games?"

A tired smile washed across her face, fleeting. "You walk a fine line."

"There is no line." Murtagh replied. "The King sees all that I do in black and white- whether it advances his plans, or wreaks havoc. The latter, of course, is the more difficult to accomplish."

"Because of the vows."

Murtagh keenly noted how she had not called them 'his' vows. He nodded.

"But… I have noticed that you're not afraid to anger the King."

Murtagh turned two eyes upon her, raising one eyebrow. "That is where you are wrong, Lady Halia. The King is the most terrifying person I have ever met. Anyone should tremble to be in his presence."

"But you don't care."

A ghost of a smile flitted across his face. "Yes. I've learned that though the King may be powerful, in the end… none of it will matter, because I'll be dead."

He was surprised how blatant, how harsh that may have sounded. She flinched, like he had struck her across the face.

"Explain yourself." She demanded; her words held the authority her voice could not manage. "Do you have no hope for freedom?"

"Not anymore."

"And why not?" Her tone was adamant, shocked, and to Murtagh's surprise, horrified.

_Because I killed the one person who could help me._ Murtagh wanted to answer. _Because I have to capture the only other person who thinks he could help me. Because the King has my True Name._ He ran a hand though his hair, sighing. How could he possibly explain this to Halia, or anyone else?

"No matter the outcome, whether the King lives or dies, I will die, in the end. I've come to accept that; it gives me boldness against the King. The knowledge that I have absolutely nothing to lose."

Halia looked away; he was half-grateful that he wasn't pinned by her eyes anymore. Another part of him wished that he could drown in her green gaze. "And what of Thorn?"

Murtagh tightened his fist around Zar'roc. "Thorn and I suffer the same fate. If he had bonded with another, anyone else, there would be hope for him. But no longer."

"And is Thorn as willing to die as you are?"

A raw wound throbbed in Murtagh's chest at the thought of Thorn dying. "We are prepared because wherever we go, we will be with each other, and that is all we need to be happy." He chuckled mirthlessly. "It's more than what we've had in this life."

Halia stared straight ahead; Murtagh decided it was his opportunity to change the conversation. "Once, after the Burning Plains, Galbatorix punished us by separating us, mentally and physically. I'm not afraid of pain, but after that I learned the true difference between bodily and psychological agony. I was deranged the entire two weeks; Thorn nearly went insane. Shruikan convinced the King to end our pain, but… we were scarred. It was worse than a thousand days of constant torture.

"Anything, whether we're alive or dead, will be better than that. I don't know how Brom survived- I'd be shocked if he never went insane without his Saphira." Murtagh gnawed on the inside of his cheek- he was saying too much. It was far too easy to speak to Halia, when she asked questions.

"He did." Halia whispered.

Murtagh nodded- it was as he suspected. Brom… he remembered the peaceful face of the man as he died. "I owe him much."

"For killing your father."

"Without him, I would have grown up in Uru'baen; I'd be as mad as the King." Murtagh paused. "I think he was a gardener at Morzan's castle when I was a child. We called him Nophel."

"That means-"

" 'Hand' in the ancient language, yes." Murtagh was fairly certain Nophel and Brom were the same; he couldn't be sure, of course, but the more he compared, the more similarities appeared between them.

Halia paused, though Murtagh could tell she had more to say. He waited for her, and there was a hint of an accusation in her eyes when she turned to stare- or was it glare?- at him. "Why did you tell me to refer to the Black Hand, when you were giving me directions? I have heard like any other of the Black Hand- the one who was Morzan's assassin and the current group in her honor. Why would you tie yourself to that kind of a reputation?"

Murtagh gritted his teeth; Halia shied away, realizing she had overstepped a boundary. Wrestling his sudden anger under control, Murtagh took a deep breath and stared straight ahead at the next race as he answered. "The Black Hand was my mother- very few know that. Morzan stole her true name, and I can truthfully say that that is the only reason that she did all the atrocities that I've heard of. She was not the murderer that many associate with the Black Hand; I know that she was tormented by what she did.

"She would have left him, if she could. But Morzan used me against her; she was against him the moment it became clear that he cared for neither of us."

Murtagh fell abruptly silent; he didn't know when he had last talked to anyone about his mother. No- he did know. It was at the Burning Plains…

Everything tied back to his blasted brother.

"That wasn't pleasant." Kidasku huffed, joining them again. Murtagh noticed the vendor's vehement glare at the werecat- Kidasku had definitely cheated him at one point or another. "It's his loss; I think the palomino will win.

"But, Murtagh, your little adventure had very poor timing. We missed the exciting race- at least until dusk- and the next one is with the war horses. It's so dull- who wants power over speed? Speed is the entire point of races!"

"You need a fast horse if you're constantly retreating." Murtagh argued. "Power gives you an upper hand in any fight, and a good horse will save your life."

"You don't even have a horse."

"I still use them."

"No you don't- you have Thorn."

"Thorn can't go marching through a war camp."

Kidasku huffed. "Anyway, the war horses are boring to watch. You have bad timing."

The crowd's attention turned from the current race to a bucking horse. Someone had whipped it; Murtagh watched as it whinnied and neighed its anger and struggled to free itself of the ropes which held it down. It was a gray war horse, speckled with white.

Murtagh knew that horse.

Ignoring whatever Kidasku was saying, Murtagh forced his way through the crowd, wild with fury and excitement. He knew that horse! He didn't know how or when, or by who, but he knew that horse-! Horror drowned his system as he charged an archer, aiming for the gray horse.

"Stop!" He roared, tackling the archer and scrambling back up. He flung himself at the race master, who was beating the horse. "I said stop!"

Grabbing the beater's uplifted hand, Murtagh ripped the rod from his grasp and swung it around, hitting him in the gut and sending him sprawling across the hard-packed ground.

"I said stop." Murtagh snarled. "Where did you get that horse?"

The beater coughed, "Who are you to-"

"Answer me!" Murtagh growled. The crowd was quiet; he knew they wanted a fight.

"I don't know." The ringmaster growled. "It came two days ago; some trader sold it to me, but it's not worth half of what I paid."

"Then I'll take it off your hands." Murtagh replied, pulling off his coin purse and tossing it to the man. "And you should learn that an eager horse runs faster than an angry one."

Murtagh took the lead rope of the gray war horse, leading it away from the crowd. As soon as he was out of sight, Halia and Kidasku discreetly trailing behind, Murtagh knew that he had done the right thing.

Tornac, nuzzling his snout against Murtagh's shoulder, snorted, as if to ask 'where have you been'?

"Hey, old boy." Murtagh murmured, running his calloused hands down the horses' proud neck. "How did you get here?"

Tornac shuddered as Murtagh prodded careful, practiced fingers around his wounds; a few words, and they vanished. Halia slid towards him, unsure of what to do.

"What do you think you're doing?" Kidasku asked. "You'll get me banned from that racetrack!"

Halia said nothing, but offered the horse her palm to sniff. A smile flickered across her face as Tornac licked her hand.

"His name is Tornac." Murtagh said, answering her unspoken question.

"Tornac?" Kidasku asked. "Tornac? You named a horse after your old teacher?"

"It's a fitting name. I've been across Alagaesia on this boy; I thought he was still in Farthen Dur."

"All across Alagaesia?" Kidasku asked, sarcastic.

"Yes." Murtagh replied. "Without Tornac, Eragon-" Murtagh choked out his brother's name- "and I wouldn't have been able to bring Arya to the Varden in time, and the Ra'zac would have brought Eragon to Galbatorix before that. It was because of this horse that I was able to fight off the Ra'zac in the first place, when Brom died." Something close to a smile tugged at Murtagh's cheeks. "Saphira had to carry him across a river; he didn't like that much, now did you, boy?"

"You were there?" Halia asked, her voice in a whisper.

Murtagh nodded. "Brom saved Eragon by sacrificing himself."

None of the trio noticed the yellow eyes watching them from the shadow of a nearby building.

"Now, what next, since Murtagh's done his good deed of the year?" Kidasku asked. "I, for one, could use some filling. There's a wonderful tavern not far from here; or we could wait and go to that library I told you about. Or the theater with the awful acting. All are very good choices."

Murtagh rolled his eyes, still stroking Tornac's gray flank.

"Well then!" Kidasku muttered. "I'll lead the way."

Murtagh didn't know where they were going, but it didn't particularly matter to him. He had Tornac back; an impossibility, considering the circumstances. It was like finding a long lost friend again; hearing the horses' steady plodding renewed Murtagh's vigor and joy, though Thorn didn't understand why he wanted to have a four-legged, hairy beast around.

Halia was in the midst of absorbing the sights and sounds again when Murtagh felt it.

The same, cold shudder raced down his spine; they stood to the side of the crowded, hectic main road, facing away from the castle. The stalker was there, watching them again; Kidasku suddenly stood rigid, shock on his face, then bolted away without another word.

"Don't move." Murtagh murmured, barely moving his lips. Halia continued to look at the fabrics presented by the vendor nearest them.

"They're back?" She whispered.

"Undoubtedly."

Murtagh turned, slowly scanning the crowd around them. His gaze landed on Kidasku, standing outside a questionable tavern, in an animated conversation with someone with hair as unruly as his and of his same height.

The werecats turned and smiled at him simultaneously, landing their yellow eyes upon his stunned form. Solembum, in his humanoid form, tipped his head towards the tavern.

Murtagh's eyes followed his prompt, and there, sitting in a window, watching him, was one person Murtagh had never expected to see again. Her voluminous curls framed her face, and a necklace made of something like mushrooms was around her neck. A spidery finger pointed at him and then at the chair beside her.

Angela.

* * *

I'm raising the bar, since fifteen is obviously way under you guys. Twenty reviews, and I'll update Saturday (rather than Monday)!


	30. Chapter 30 Another Attack

And you people made it! 20 reviews! :D

DeathonOlympus- THANK YOU SO MUCH. That means so much to me... THANK YOU.

Blufinger- I'm going to PM you, because your reviews are so long and so great!

And all of my other lovelies- I'm glad you liked the twist with Angela, and here it continues! Enjoy!

**Chapter 30: Another Attack**

Here was the stalker; here was the magician whose mind slipped away from Murtagh's touch. It had to be Solembum's doing, and the Old Magic, but it was still unfathomable to Murtagh. He didn't know whether to glare and acknowledge her presence or ignore her; neither seemed particularly pleasant.

Angela raised one eyebrow, cocking her head.

_Dammit!_ It was too late to ignore her- perhaps. He could still walk away, he could still leave, he could still-

No, it was too late. The werecats, smiling, appeared at his side. Solembum wordlessly slid a note into his hand and vanished a moment later into the crowd.

"Excuse me, two leggeds. I have business to attend too." Kidasku smiled, and followed Solembum into the mass of people.

"Do you know that werecat?" Halia murmured, her eyes still fixed on the wares before her. However, the window provided an excellent- though backward- view of what had transpired.

"Unfortunately." Murtagh replied. He could burn the note without reading it, and save himself the trouble…

His curiosity overwhelmed his rebellious thoughts, and Murtagh fingered the note, pulling it open.

_Hello Murtagh, _it read_. _

_ Meet me here by sundown of today. I won't wait all night for you; and watch out for ferrets. I have some business that would interest you. _

_Angela and Solembum_

Murtagh glared at the note rather than the writer. Business that would interest him? What could she possibly mean? Then again, Angela always had been on the strange side…

_You should go._ Thorn told him. _Maybe they have something interesting to tell you._

_ They didn't come all the way here just for me._ Murtagh replied. _They have some plan, some trick in store. _

_ You don't know that._

No, he didn't, but Murtagh suspected it all the same.

"Do you know the woman staring at you?" Halia murmured.

"Yes." Murtagh quipped; Angela's appearance only helped deteriorate his mood. "She's a member of the Varden."

"And the werecat?"

"His name is Solembum. They used to live in Gil'ead, or Teirm- one of the two."

"You suspect mischief."

"That is the only explanation for their presence. They're probably here after the green egg, or looking for Eragon."

Halia studied Angela in the window; she had pulled a toad out of her cloak pocket, and seemed absorbed in studying the slimy, green thing. Murtagh had to remind himself to check the time; he didn't want Halia to be out in Uru'baen after dark.

"What does she want with you?" Halia asked.

"I'm not sure."

They lapsed back into silence; Murtagh was just about to suggest they keep looking around the city when something whapped him in the head. He spun around to face the offender, and a Black Letter slapped his cheek, begging to be opened. Swearing under his breath, Murtagh grabbed the cursed thing and pried it open.

_My Rider, _

_You are to attend a dinner party tonight. Bring your elf; best dress. Be in the throne room by seven sharp. _

_ Galbatorix_

There went their plans for the evening. Murtagh pinched the bridge of his nose and turned to Halia.

"Come." He sighed. "The King has ordered our presence at a dinner of his."

"Our?" She squeaked.

Murtagh nodded; Thorn keened a low howl. The castle took on a more menancing stance; the Red Rider gritted his teeth and started tromping back up the road. Halia kept close to his side; she seemed stiffer than usual, but that was no surprise.

"Will it be like the Gala?" She murmured.

"Not at all." Murtagh answered. "Fewer people; a simpler setting."

"But just as dangerous."

Murtagh gnawed on the inside of his cheek. "I'd say it is more dangerous; it's harder to leave unnoticed; you're forced to interact with everyone. And more people are drunk, in the end. The company is just as toxic as at the Gala."

"Did the King give a reason for the event?"

"No."

_What about Angela?_ Thorn asked. _You should still meet her_.

Murtagh picked a piece of crinkled paper off the street and scribbled a few words on it, then sent it zipping to Angela. His message was simple: _You might have to wait all night. _

He didn't honestly care about whatever business Angela had with him; but curiosity still prompted him to wonder… It had to be about Eragon. It had too.

Everything tied back to his blasted brother.

They slipped back into the castle, avoiding noblemen and servants alike. Neither deserved a moment of their time, in Murtagh's opinion; he suspected Halia agreed with him.

They changed quickly; Murtagh wearing his typical red and black, and Halia, the dress she had made for the Gala. Murtagh changed the color to a soft purple upon her request; he liked the green better on her.

The dinner was just as torturous as Murtagh had imagined. The food was decent, of course, but it was the people that continued to torment him. The purest agony, however, was when one of the drunk noblemen suggested that when the war was over, all of them should take elves as mistresses.

Murtagh keenly noted how Halia's eyes burned, how she struggled to withhold her fury, how her unstable mind threatened to set off another explosion.

He also noticed how beautiful she was when she was angry; how her eyes burned brighter, how her face glowed with incest. Beautiful and terrible simultaneously. His attention had to turn when the King broached a dangerous subject with Murtagh.

"Lord Galon, do you not have a daughter who is of age?" The King asked, his black eyes missing nothing that transpired across the table, among the two dozen 'privileged' guests.

"Yes, My King, I do." Galon answered; he bordered on drunkenness. "And a prettier thing I have rarely laid eyes on."

"And does she have many suitors?"

Galon hiccuped. "Too many, my Lord, for most of them are unworthy of her."

The King paused, a smirk lingering in his eyes. "Would our dear Lord Murtagh be suitable?"

Murtagh's fingers closed around a glass of water. He could not lose his temper here; he could not put Halia in danger like that. The prickling stares of Karth and Furdor, at the far end of the table, raised the hairs on the back of his neck- they wanted him to explode, they wanted another opportunity…

Opportunity for what?

Murtagh focused on the topic; of course he wouldn't marry the girl. The King could force him, but he wouldn't truly marry her- that would be a new form of a nightmare. That would be insanity. Then again, the King was insane…

"Of- of course the Lord Murtagh would be welcomed into our family." Galon answered, his voice had risen an octave. Probably in horror- Murtagh was, after all, a monster- but perhaps in glee, because his family would be of higher status in Uru'baen.

The King's eyes were upon him, but Murtagh kept his gaze on the stuffed pig that sat before him, a ripe apple in his mouth, dead, glistening, smelling wonderful…

And out of the corner of his eye, Halia's fingers wrapped around the knife beside her, her knuckles turning white. Murtagh dared not look at her properly- that would direct the King's attention to her- but watched as a tremor raced down her hand.

The magicians.

Of course, that was the only answer. Murtagh turned to glare at them, his eyes Thorn's shade of red; they smiled back- surely they were going as mad as the King. It would make sense, after all; they were his sons.

"My Dear Rider, what say you on the matter?" The King asked.

Murtagh's jaw jumped; he would tell the truth, and the pleasure of fighting the King bubbled up in Murtagh's system- the sweet, sweet taste of rebellion. He could feel Halia's eyes upon him, and Thorn warned him to be careful. Halia, though, was safe- she was not involved in this argument.

"I'll marry her- or anyone else, for that matter- when hell freezes over." Murtagh replied, locking eyes with the King. "Perhaps the Lords Karth or Furdor would be more willing."

Thorn laughed; Murtagh caught a hint of a smile from the corner of Halia's lips. The King did not appreciate Murtagh's reply; he glared at him with black eyes before turning his attention to his sons.

"Well?" He demanded. "If the lady is as beautiful as her father suggests, and there is magic in her blood, what say you?"

The magicians gave each other greedy looks- they were in competition with each other as well as Murtagh, the Red Rider realized.

"I wouldn't mind the girl, per say, King, but I have my sights set on a particular elf." Karth answered, the insane smile once again on his face. Halia stiffened, and Murtagh's hand found Zar'roc.

"I must agree with my brother." Furdor sighed. "We are in a game, my Lord. The prize is the elf sitting ten seats down from me."

Lightning fast, Murtagh stood up, his chair falling to the floor in his haste. One hand found Halia's shoulder, and she too rose, though with grace Murtagh could never reduplicate.

"The meal has been wonderful, my Lord." Murtagh lied. "Please excuse us."

Another smirk tugged at the corners of the King's mouth- how he loved court rivalries! Karth and Furdor leaned forward in their seats, waiting for the King's word.

"You are excused, Murtagh." The King answered, waving them away.

It was some kind of cue for the magicians; Murtagh took three long steps forward, Halia close to his side, when a sinking, nagging feeling hit his mind.

He turned, and the whole world seemed to slow down.

Karth stood frozen, almost, rising from his chair, one hand outstretched. Brown magic was slowly making its way towards Murtagh- in real life it would be racing towards him, it would reach him in a moment. Furdor's expression was one of greed, of a starvation set on devouring Halia- he was halfway across the room, darting to block the doorway. His hands as well were working their sick and twisted magic, orange fingers reaching for the doors to lock them-

And Halia was watching him, Murtagh. A low flame burned in her eyes, her glorious, paralyzing eyes, and her hands were just as busy as the magicians; she, too, had suspected something. Her right arm was reaching up her left sleeve, where her dagger was hidden, and her left hand was fisted, ready to punch.

And it was so wrong that she was there, that she had to endure all of Uru'baen's atrocities, that she was subjected to the horrors of Murtagh's life.

Raw fury, unchained, unbound, rose up in Murtagh's chest- a dragon awakening from a fitful sleep, filled with dreams of blood and war in a peaceful land, of smashed eggs and fallen mates, of murdered family and betrayal- and his gedwey ignasia began burning….

_Save us._ An ancient voice whispered, brushing aside Murtagh's mental defenses as if they were nothing. _Save us, and we will save you._

Murtagh didn't have time to ask the ancient voice anything- it was not Oromis, it was not Galbatorix, it was not anyone Murtagh had ever known-

A dragon.

An eldunari.

Time was speeding up, returning to its typical pace, and Murtagh saw outrage in the King's face- they were disturbing his dinner- but there was a sick pleasure in their fight, in the blood, in the rush of adrenaline-

And his hands worked of their own accord.

His right hand, with his gedwey ignasia, turned toward Karth, a spell raining from his lips- a red wall formed between Halia and Karth-

His left hand reached for Furdor, dashing towards the door. Red fingers obeyed his will, reaching around Furdor's torso, slamming him to the floor and snapping his wrists with a sickening crack.

Time had returned to its typical speed; Karth's spell hit Murtagh's wall and rebounded on him, throwing him and the table back, scattering noble people and food across the freezing floor of the throne room. Furdor screamed, a 'waise hail' falling from his lips, when Murtagh cut out his tongue with a single word.

All of it- from the time Murtagh stood to the present, to Furdor's blood gushing down his chin and across the icy floor- took seven seconds.

"I SAID GET OUT!" The King roared. "GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT!"

Murtagh grabbed Halia's arm, her blade useless, and ran from the room, from the King's fury and the magician's plan.

They burst back into Murtagh's rooms, breathless, adrenaline still coursing through Murtagh's systems. Kidasku was still not back.

Murtagh grabbed the clothes he wore earlier and stuffed Sicorro into a bag, tossing it at Halia, who was doing the same.

"Come." He began, the words tumbling from his mouth. "I'm going to find Angela, and I won't leave you here. I'm taking you to the dragonhold. If you need anything- magic or energy- touch Sicorro and tell him exactly what you want. Thorn and Shruikan will help."

They ran through the castle once more, wild to escape the King's wrath and the magician's reach. Murtagh locked the dragonhold door with five new spells, just in case, and vanished into the streets of Uru'baen.

Angela waited for him, still playing with her toad.

* * *

I'm not setting a standard this time; I'm posting so often that I'll loose my cushion soon. I'll write two chapters and then post again- by Wednesday, we'll say. Or sooner. Depends. Anyway, ya'll are awesome, and I can't wait to read your reviews! I know it was a short chapter, but I still like it... hope you did too!


	31. Chapter 31 A Deal

I'm in a rush so I'll be quick- I'll update Monday or Tuesday of next week. I swear! (I'm gone over the weekend, btw. Otherwise I'd post Sunday.) Yeah, so a bunch of you were wondering if Karth and Furdor were Galby's real sons- yes, they are. And yes, they are honest to goodness bastards, because the King ain't married. He doesn't have an heir; an heir would be a threat.

What else? Well, this is the chapter with Angela and Murtagh! Enjoy!

**Chapter 31: A Deal**

Angela's eyes were a bright, warm brown, eager, even excited, to see him. Murtagh didn't understand it at all, then again, he didn't understand most women, much less Angela.

He slid into the booth, watching her. What did she have to say to him, the traitor? The murderer? The monster? What would a Varden member like herself have to talk about to Murtagh, under such peaceful circumstances? He could make nothing of the situation, neither heads nor tails; Kidasku and Solembum were out of sight.

"You need a haircut." Angela told him, gently petting her toad.

_What a way to start a conversation._ Thorn chuckled, absorbing the sight of Angela. He had only seen her in Murtagh's brief memories; he thought she was strange.

"What do you want, Angela?" Murtagh asked, his patience thin. He was anxious, with Halia so far away; a part of him wanted her constantly under his protection, defended from the magicians and the King alike. He assumed it was his promise, working to be fulfilled.

"Hello to you too." Angela huffed. "You did make it, and I didn't have to wait all night after all."

"The longer I'm here the more likely the King will realize I'm not in the castle." Murtagh warned her.

"I see, I see." She muttered. "Well then, down to business!" She leaned forward, her eyes bright and eager. "I want to know about the King. What he loves, what he hates. Anything you can tell me- anything! I'm sure you want him dead too, so help me, and you'll be helping yourself."

Murtagh too leaned forward, his eyes fixed on hers. His words fell softly from his lips, carrying a hint of a threat, of controlled rage. "Helping the Varden only means helping you kill me."

"Well, there's that too, but we don't know the circumstances yet, so have hope, Murtagh." She shrugged. "You may yet be redeemable."

"Not to the Varden, not to the dwarves, and not to the elves."

"Fine then- be a pessimist." She growled. "Now, are you going to say anything? Or have I wasted our time?"

"I can say very little." Murtagh replied. "I have vows…"

"You seem to find loopholes when you want too."

Murtagh glared at her- the obnoxious witch. She had always been a pain, he remembered. Always odd, always random, always straight to the point.

She sighed, giving him a look of annoyance. "Help me, and you start earning your forgiveness from the other races. Tell me whatever you want to say; it doesn't have to be about the King, I suppose."

Murtagh gnawed on the inside of his cheek, Thorn waiting for him. "I'll offer you a deal." He decided, trying in vain to read her expression.

"Hmm. It'll depend what you want."

"When do you leave?" He asked.

"Whenever I'm done with my business here." She replied. "Could be a week, could be a month from now. Depends on my sources and their… helpfulness."

"Could you possibly leave… tomorrow?"

She raised her eyebrows. "Depends on whether or not you help me."

A plan was forming in Murtagh's mind, fragments, bits and pieces fitting together into a cohesive whole. The fissure split Murtagh's mind a little further, and something else inside of him felt like it was breaking: the right thing, or what he wanted? Why did it hurt so much? Why was it so… hard?

The right thing, then. He had to do it, for no other reason than that it was right. He had too; it was the only way, it was his only good choice…

His eyes met her expectant ones again, and his voice was low. "I have a… package that needs to leave Uru'baen. Sooner rather than later. You would take it-"

"I'm not taking anything over fifty pounds." Angela interrupted.

Murtagh turned this over in his mind. No, the package he had in mind still fit. "That's not a problem."

"And I wouldn't take it excessively far. Not to Surda, for example. I'd take it to the Varden or the elves, Murtagh. Eventually. Probably."

"Probably?" Murtagh's eyes narrowed.

"Well, I have other places to go too."

"No." Murtagh answered. "It must be taken directly to the Varden or the elves."

She sighed. "And if I do it, you'll tell me whatever you can?"

"As much as I can."

It hurt Murtagh to say it, but wasn't her life worth more than his? He'd inflict so much pain on himself and Thorn… but it was the right thing…

_ Because it was the right thing to do._

He could imaging the torture they would endure, the weeks separated, the blood that would fall. The new vows, the new curses, the tighter noose. He could see the King's fury, how he would have death on his mind…

And the fissure in Murtagh's mind split a little further, prying the parts of his skull apart, killing him. The pain was unusually strong; Murtagh didn't know what caused it, but it suddenly was gone. Once his decision was made, the rightness of it determined, the pain vanished.

"Alright then." The witch smiled, offering her hand. "We have a deal."

"Vow it." Murtagh replied, ignoring her hand.

"Excuse me?"

"If I've learned one thing in this god-forsaken place, it's that you can never trust anyone. Vow it."

She did, and after a pause, Murtagh took a deep breath. "Ask a question."

"What does the King's power come from?"

Murtagh bit his lip. "I cannot answer; it is the dragon's secret, and you'd have to ask Shruikan."

"But you do know how?"

"Yes."

"Can you access it?"

"Parts- only what the King gives me."

"Where does he store it?"

"In the castle."

"Could others access it?" Her questions came at him like an interrogation; he supposed, sighing, that that was the truth of the situation.

"No."

Her questions went from expected to obscure; she started asking about the number of warts the King had, how many children, their ages, how many fingers they all had, if he had any ferrets. Some questions Murtagh had to skirt, avoiding his vows, others he couldn't answer at all.

The hours whittled by; Thorn told him Shruikan and Halia had fallen asleep, and the King was nowhere in sight. Angela's interrogation continued, and the werecats never appeared. Murtagh had the feeling Kidasku was showing Solembum the many secret entrances into the castle, and for some reason, he didn't mind.

She asked about the passageway that had been used to capture Saphira's egg; Murtagh explained how the King had sealed it off with the petrified bodies of the guards. She pried him for information about the King's strengths, the number in the army, his next moves; those were harder for Murtagh to answer.

And then came the stickiest parts.

"What do you know about Eragon?" She asked.

Murtagh backed off of her question. "His captors are two magicians called Karth and Furdor- both are sons of the King."

"And how did they capture him?"

"With a dome and poison."

"Obviously. We'll move on; he is not in Uru'baen?"

"I don't believe so."

"And Saphira?"

Murtagh gnawed on his cheek, sidestepping the direct questions. "Karth and Furdor are working of their own accord; the King has not ordered anything, and I doubt he knows about their control over Eragon."

"That doesn't answer my question."

Murtagh's eyes cut through Angela's brown ones; suspicion hung in her gaze. "Thorn and I know where they are; we, however, have no way of releasing them without triggering our vows, no matter how hard we try. The King has left no more loopholes, after the Battle of the Burning Plains." Murtagh scowled, leaning back in the booth. "It has been a nightmare concealing my knowledge of their location."

"What would the King do to them, if he found them?" Angela's voice dropped to a whisper.

Murtagh's scowl deepened. "What do you think?"

And for once, Angela said nothing; furrowing her brow, she turned to look out the window onto the street. "And what have you been doing?"

"Trying to stay alive." Murtagh snapped.

"Why?" She asked. "Why bother, since you're so sure that you'll die soon?"

Murtagh's glare grew in intensity; if anyone had looked over at them, they would have seen a man with eyes red as rubies, as blood, glowering at an odd woman who did not react to the intensity of the man's gaze. "If I die now, it would be for nothing. And Thorn and I have loose ends to complete." He growled.

"Like Eragon."

Murtagh's gaze softened, just a tad. "Like Eragon."

"And why do you want to save him yourself?"

_Because it is the right thing to do. _

Murtagh sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I don't want him to suffer my same fate of slavery; he's my brother."

"Half."

Murtagh froze, retreating behind his stoic mask. "Excuse me?"

"Half-brother." Angela repeated. "Eragon's father was Brom."

Numbness spread through Murtagh's system; his blood suddenly seemed thick and sluggish, like his thoughts. Brom? Half brother? His mother was not a whore- Selena wasn't a- a-

But Brom had been there, the whole time. Brom had been Nophel… Brom had been the gardener…

Brom.

"Do you want to know anything else, or are you through?" Murtagh hissed, his voice so low that he could barely muster the strength to make himself heard.

"Oh yes, plenty- I'm a spy, after all."

"Three more questions, then I must leave."

"Fine, fine." Angela huffed; she apparently didn't notice how Murtagh struggled to think clearly-Brom- "Let's see here… where is the green egg?"

"I'm not sure." The partial truth, fitting for a time when Murtagh's mind was only half-working. Like Eragon was his half-brother…

"Do you know anything about a little girl, she looks ten, with a dragon mark on her brow and purple eyes?"

"Who is she? I've never heard of such a child."

"Her name is Elva- Eragon tried blessing her, and she went missing… does that strike a chord?"

"No."

"That's hardly an answer- you tend to give a lot of those- but, hmm… my last question? What does the King have in store for you?"

Murtagh recoiled as if he had been struck, gritting his teeth. There were hundreds of things the King planned on doing with him… "Kill me."

"Why would he do that?" Angela asked. "You're his most valuable weapon."

So Murtagh was nothing more than a weapon; he gritted his teeth. "Because I am his greatest threat. As soon as the war's over I'm done, no matter the outcome. Goodnight, Angela. I expect to meet you by the gates to the city at nightfall tomorrow."

And he was gone.

Murtagh walked until he was out of the tavern's sight; and then he ran. But run doesn't properly describe it- he fled. He tore through the darkened streets, fueled by his pain, his agony, the utter _loneliness_ of his life. Even Thorn had left- he was asleep- and everything seemed to crash down around Murtagh's ears.

Selena had given him up for Eragon, for Brom's son. The pale scar on his back burned like the day he had gotten it; even his mother had abandoned him. Even his mother had chosen her other son, her better son, her younger son, over him. Even his mother… his mother, who he loved so dearly… Selena…

She had died for Eragon, she had given up him, Murtagh, for Eragon.

And he was loosing the only person who had ever been gentle and faithful to him… he was loosing her, and the agony dragged a knife down his back, ripping his scar open once more. Why did it hurt so much? Why did the right thing cause him so much pain? Why? What had he done to deserve such a fate? Such a sick and twisted life? Why him?

The fissure down his mind had passed his temples, pounding below a vein in his forehead. It had almost cut his skull in half; it had almost divided his mind. Did Thorn feel it too? Murtagh doubted it, his feet pounding down the dark cobblestone roads.

Why couldn't he just get away? Why couldn't he just kill the King? Why couldn't someone- anyone- just help him, for once? Why did no one try to save him, to rescue him from his living nightmare?

No, no one tried helping him. They were all concerned with Eragon, his half brother, his damned, bastard half-brother. Where was Eragon? What had happened to Eragon? Who had Eragon? Was Eragon alright? Was Eragon safe? Was their precious hero sound?

And no one thought of him, the discarded, ignored, rejected, older brother, older half-brother; no one cared about Murtagh, what happened to Murtagh, whether Murtagh was going to live to see another day. No- they wanted to kill him for things he hadn't done, for things that his hands had accomplished but not his mind.

And then they asked why he didn't kill himself, why he didn't let them kill him. Even Eragon had offered- 'let me kill you'- like he was the righteous judge of Murtagh's soul!

And revenge bubbled up in Murtagh's heart, a boiling fury, a raging anger, resealing the newly fractured part of the fissure. He should just let Eragon suffer, let him feel the same pain Murtagh had endured as a mere man, rather than a Rider; he should leave Eragon alone, let him fight it out on his own, like he had been forced too-

He should tell the King where Eragon was, what had happened to him, and that alone would be the sweetest revenge. Watching the Varden's terror, shock, and agony when the Sons of Selena emerged from the clouds, allies rather than enemies, ready to destroy everyone, down to the last child- watch as the Varden's own hero would rip them apart-

And Murtagh realized he was a monster.

He was a monster of the worst kind; a slave, a puppet, a marionette with a body tied to strings but a mind that ravaged the world around him.

Suddenly exhausted, Murtagh slid to the ground, trying to steady himself.

And for the first time in years, tears prickled his eyes; his vision blurred as they clouded his sight, and something caught in his throat; he struggled to breathe, to think, to feel anything besides the blistering agony of being so alone, so rejected, so hated…

Everything had turned against him… everyone except her, and he was losing her… _because it was the right thing to do…_

The right thing to do…

But no one had ever done the right thing to him; he could count on one hand the number of people who had ever given him any form of kindness… Ajihad, Nasuada, Tornac… Halia…

Why do the right thing when no one had ever done it to him? Why bother? Why give those who hated him, who sought to kill him, the one thing that he had never known? Why do such a thing?

_Because it was the right thing to do…_

Miserable, Murtagh glared at the sky, the heavens that dared to shine down on such a god-forsaken place… he wished he could be so unfeeling, so lifeless, as the stars, infinitely beautiful and out of reach, beyond his touch..

The fissure in his mind started ripping again, hammers and nails prying apart his skull. The mental agony, mixed with the emotional, was too much for Murtagh to handle, and silent tears started spilling down his face, staining his scarred cheeks…

He was just a man, one man, living in a lonely world, a place that hated him, that loathed him, that rejected and condemned him… and he could do nothing to rid himself of the guilt that followed him, the pain that had become a part of him, the agony that clung to him like a burr catches on a coat…

But maybe he could redeem himself… maybe, maybe, if he managed to free Eragon, if he saved him, if he healed him, if he broke off his chains, if he killed the King…

Maybe then he could be more than the monster, more than the beast that lurked in his soul… maybe then he could know what love was, know what it meant to be free…

Maybe… Maybe…

Maybe he could kill the demon that lived in his heart, maybe he could prove once and for all that he was not evil, that he was not Morzan's son…

The Son of None.

He could be the Son of None, the hero… the one who had saved everyone who had ever hurt him…

_Because it was the right thing to do. _

Maybe he could… maybe…

Murtagh rose, shakily, trying to gain his bearing, to wrestle down his raging emotions. Oromis had told him he was the one who could save everyone, who could free them from the King's oppression. The ancient eldunari- whoever it was- had told him to free them, and Eragon, his half-brother, the favorite, was hopeless, friendless, and utterly alone…

Maybe, for once, Murtagh could do the right thing.


	32. Chapter 32 The True Red Rider

Only 11 reviews for the last chapter... did ya'll not like it very much? Some of you did, obviously: Lobo de Fuego did! I, for one, loved that chapter. I am a firm believer in manly tears.

: Murtagh didn't tell Angela where Eragon and Saphira were a) because he wants to be the one to rescue them, and b) Murtagh doesn't know this, but the Varden already knows where he is because he told Arya when he escaped.

Anyway, I truly hope you like this chapter. It... _intensifies_ the situation.

**Chapter 32: The True Red Rider**

Morning brought a better mood, and if Murtagh dared to name it, hope. He was doing a good thing, something honorable and noble, and no one could stop him. That, more than anything else, made him feel powerful, in control. He could still guide his own destiny, and standing before him was a scrap of proof.

But that knowledge brought a throbbing pain with it; he would be alone once more by nightfall. Thorn didn't know yet- the dragon was still sleeping- and Murtagh rose to find Halia.

She sat on the floor of the library, humming softly to herself while she sewed a pair of leather boots. Murtagh recognized the tune- the street urchin had sang it the day before. Had it really been so recently? It felt like a lifetime ago, and in some ways, Murtagh felt fresh, new.

Half of him wondered why his true name hadn't changed yet; the other half was glad, for once, that it hadn't: it meant that he could continue to wreak havoc in Uru'baen, and with her gone, he would have nothing to fear.

But the pain from the day before still haunted him… Brom as Eragon's father tormented him, and he shut the memory out- he hoped to never speak to Angela again, though he knew his wish would probably go unfulfilled, considering all the secrets he had spilled.

Because it was the right thing to do…

The night before had proved to Murtagh, like nothing else, that even the worst could do good; that he was not lost, that he was not totally evil. That a sense of morality still harbored in his blackened soul- he still had hope, as Angela had put it. Perhaps he could still be redeemed…

He watched her from the doorway, his arms folded across his chest. Her fingers nimbly pulled the thread through the tough leather with the practice of many years; she glanced up and gave him a brief smile.

Murtagh memorized her smile, adding it to the list of her other traits; her laughter, both the rare giggle and the airy laugh; her voice, the soothing notes of her speech and the spellbinding sound of her singing; her smell, of lavender and pine; the smooth touch of her soft and warm hands, her tiny waist. Murtagh remembered her graceful walk, the way she seemed to float across floors, to glide past her enemies as they stood transfixed by her beauty.

But her eyes were what he sought to capture perfectly. Her face was too precious, and though her vibrant hair added to it, her eyes were the final touch, the last added measure. They completed the picture, her physical perfection.

Her character was just as lovely. Murtagh's mind wandered to the way she held her head high, even when enemies surrounded her; he thought of the undeniable trust she put in him. He remembered the frightened, broken elf he had been given and compared that frail creature to the healthy one before him; she had survived, and grown stronger, more resilient.

He thought of her gentle admiration of the little street urchin they had seen the day before, the way her eyes fell upon the orphan, how they softened and glowed with pleasure at seeing such a happy little thing. He thought of her bravery, to stand up and face the dreaded dragon Shruikan and had told him, without reservation, that they were more closely related than he and the King. He thought of her strength when she refused the King's assistance, climbing up to the platform at the Gala; he remembered how she wrapped the noblewomen around her finger and turned their trap upon them.

But he remembered her fear as well. The way she trembled as she reached towards him for support, the panic in her eyes when they realized the magicians were upon them once more. He could not ignore, however, the way she fought them like a demon, how she had even stood up against the King, risking her life to destroy the one who had ripped apart her family and her life. He remembered how she had taunted Furdor, her fury released; he remembered how her revenge brooded in her eyes, exploding with the force of a wildfire.

And she was beautiful. Through all of the atrocities she endured, she had been purified like gold in a fire; her innocence had melted away, replaced by a tough shell that made her both unpredictable and glorious to behold. In some ways, Murtagh realized, they were very alike, but in others they were complete opposites.

Her needle snapped, the splintering sound breaking Murtagh's wandering thoughts. She sighed, setting aside in a pile of other broken tools.

"You do that often?" Murtagh asked, eying the pile.

"Too often for my taste." She replied, glancing up at him again. Curiosity lingered in her eyes- probably about his conversation with Angela- but she did not pry.

Murtagh sat next to her, picking up two pieces of needle. With a short phrase he mended them; she'd need them, and he doubted he would be able to get her more. "Why don't you try?" He asked, handing the next two shards to her.

He could read the doubt in her face; he could see that she didn't trust herself. But she did not argue, her wiry fingers taking the pieces so the split ends met.

"Guilde havan." She murmured. Mend this metal.

Faint purple magic, weak, issued from her fingers and vanished. The needles remained broken, and her eyes betrayed her hopelessness.

"Again." Murtagh urged her; she had to learn this.

This time, Murtagh was prepared. He entered her mind, lingering away from the depth of her mentality. He wanted to see what happened in her head, when she tried using magic; why was it so unpredictable?

An image of the repaired needle flitted across her alien mind, the meaning of the words and her intent colored the picture.

But again, nothing happened.

She watched him with expectant eyes, eager for a diagnosis; there was also fear there: the fear of being the next Cripple Who Is Whole.

Murtagh rested his head on one hand; why was that? Why could she cause random explosions when under stress, heal him for no reason other than its rightness, but not mend a common household tool?

"I think your emotions play into it. You can't control the explosions, can you?"

"Not at all." She scowled; Murtagh understood how her lack of control tortured her.

"Then it must be from emotion; adrenaline, perhaps."

She seemed to disagree, on the verge of saying something, but she turned away and Murtagh knew she would say no more.

"Have you ever seen something… someone… like me before?"

Murtagh read the underlying question- could she be cured? Was there a way to recover her lost ability?

But no, he had never met anyone like her, nor had he ever seen a condition like hers, except with Oromis. Murtagh didn't even know if the ancient elf had been able to do any magic; they hadn't gotten that far in their fight, and Murtagh was immensely glad about that.

Murtagh sighed. "I've read about Kialandi and Formona; how they made Oromis how he was. Perhaps some answer to your predicament lies in that situation; come. I believe we could make use of a trip to the King's library."

He rose, offering his hand to her. He could read the silent, bitter hopelessness in her eyes; it snuffed out their typical flame, smothering the light that normally glowed in her face. And it stung Murtagh, to see her so… depressed. He wanted to help her, he wanted to heal her, to avenge the wrongs done to her-

His train of thought shattered when she accepted his outstretched hand. The warmth in her fingers calmed him; the softness of her skin distracted him. He instinctively helped her up- that's why he had outstretched his hand in the first place- but when her hand slipped out of his; he realized he wanted to keep her warm hand, to continue holding it…

Turning toward the doorway to avoid her gaze, he led the way to the great library of Galbatorix, formerly of Vrael- Murtagh didn't mention that part- past the whispering noblepeople and through the drafty hallways of the aging castle. He keenly noticed how Halia kept at his side; how she slid behind him when others appeared, how she wasn't afraid to be close to him.

It was a strange realization, but Murtagh didn't fight it.

And then started the real battle; finding the book that had described those two Forsworn's atrocious deed. Thorn remembered that it smelled like smoke; Murtagh considered the breaking leather binding.

Being around books seemed to lift their moods; Murtagh listened to Halia's soft humming, though it was always melancholy tunes; he watched the way she treated each book like it was beautiful, how each volume she hadn't read seemed precious to her.

He didn't follow the time, losing himself in the musty smells of the quiet library; and for once in his life, it was peaceful, quiet… and he was content.

Until the Black Letter came.

It pelted Murtagh in the back, attacking him as violently as a piece of paper could; Murtagh bit his tongue to stop swearing and ripped the page open.

The King had summoned him to go to the throne room.

Immediately, Murtagh's vows began working against him; his feet started moving towards the door mechanically, unwilling. He could feel Halia's eyes upon him, but he could not open his mouth to say anything, he could not do anything but his master's will.

Thorn filled his empty shoes; he told Shruikan, who told Halia something, and Murtagh listened to her retreating feet as she left the library- alone, he noticed with a jolt- and he was left to dread the King's presence.

His hands worked of their own accord, pushing the massive double doors open. A gust of icy air hit Murtagh in the face; his skin prickled from the shock as a shudder having to do with both the temperature and the company raced down his spine.

But more than that, Murtagh felt the King's unmerciful eyes. It took bravery to be in the King's presence; it took more to stand up straight, and courage of a rare kind to meet that insane face.

The King sat on his throne, comforted by lush pelts all across the freezing chair. His black eyes glared at Murtagh; they betrayed his anger, his fury. His fingers caressed Jithanik, his sword; they petted the black blade like a stable boy would a horse.

Murtagh knew blood was on the King's mind, and considering that only two people were in the room, he suspected pain was in store for him.

The King did not speak; Murtagh wondered what was going through his twisted mind, which unfortunate soul he planned on hurting. Why was another question, one that Murtagh suspected Galbatorix did not care so much about. The Red Rider had unfortunate suspicions, but he banished the thought of Eragon from his mind… the King must not learn the truth of Eragon or Saphira… he couldn't…

So Murtagh stood still, like one would when approached by a wild animal. Moving was provocation; Murtagh half-wished he could blend into the wall and avoid the King's daunting eyes. His breath slipped through his mouth in little clouds; was it just him, or was the room colder than before? Eying the throne, Murtagh wondered what all was beneath it; eldunari, of course, probably the swords of the Riders, perhaps money- what did the King consider valuable enough to keep beneath his own ass? The green egg, probably. Lists of true names, in all likelihood; rough plans of what to do with the rebellion once they were defeated.

The Vault of Souls was so close, but so far out of reach.

Near enough to touch, far enough that it was out of reach, and out of sight.

Jithanik came out of its scabbard, and the King rose, twirling the sword around his wrist. Insanity brooded in his eyes- some would have called it contentment. That was never a good thing, with the King. It meant pain and blood and agony.

Murtagh remained still, frozen. The icy air kissed his cheeks; he worked on strengthening his mental defenses, wishing it wasn't in vain. He took another shallow breath- now was not the time to panic.

The King turned two glaring eyes upon him, and Murtagh stiffened.

"You've caused me some… annoyance of late, Murtagh." He growled.

Murtagh didn't reply.

"You've always been a rebellious, ungrateful bastard. After everything I've given you, after all of my generosity, you still seek to diminish my authority and ruin my rule. How could you, my best friend's son? I gave you Thorn, I taught you magic; I gave you eldunari, and power, and strength second to my own; and you repay the debt with contempt and silent fury.

"You heartless boy! I gave you everything you could have wanted on a golden platter, and this is what I receive! You are worthless! As soon as this damn war is over you are through! You are over! I swear, I'll kill you myself! You ungrateful wretch! You cruel boy! To treat your benefactor so! To spit on the hands that gave you life and happiness!"

The King took a few steps down the from the throne, Jithanick still clutched in his hand. His eyes were wide and his face flushed; Murtagh knew this was only the warm-up to the true tantrum.

"I curse you, Murtagh! I curse you for your spite and hatred and unwillingness! If only I had my Blessed Twelve! If only Morzan were still alive! He would certainly teach you a few lessons, wouldn't he, Murtagh? Do you need a few more scars to teach you gratitude and humility?"

The King paused, taking a deep breath. His knuckles were white from clutching Jithanik so tightly, and Murtagh knew he wanted to kill him then and there.

But his words bounced off Murtagh like a rubber ball against bricks. They meant nothing to him, the Son of None. Nothing the King had ever done for him had made him happy, save Thorn; all of it had corrupted him, defiled him, revealed him to be a heartless, soulless, damned murderer.

And the King expected him to be grateful for that?

"Or… perhaps a different sort of punishment is in store for you." The King murmured, and Murtagh could see the wheels of his insanity whirling in his mind. Demons above and below… what was he planning? What new devilry was on his mind?

Murtagh didn't want to know, horror seeping through his system as a new expression crept across the King's face, an expression of-

Murtagh shuddered.

The King was smiling down upon him, _smiling_. It was so sick and wrong; Murtagh could barely meet Galbatorix's black gaze- even his unusual bravery recoiled from the madness that was the Traitor.

And he laughed.

It started as a soft chuckle, the amused sound of an insane man. But it grew, it blossomed, it echoed in the room as a roar, a symphony of guffaws. It was the voice of insanity, of madness; it was the sound of Murtagh's doom.

Murtagh wanted to run, to flee, to be free; he couldn't stand the King's eager, wild eyes upon him.

"Yes, Murtagh… I've come up with a different punishment for you." Galbatorix smiled. "The best part is that we don't have to wait for the war to be over; I could begin now, and in an hours time you could be a new man."

Laughter once again rang in the room; Murtagh didn't dare speak. The King doubled over; gasping for air, his eyes watering from his amusement.

"Yes, Murtagh, I think I shall make you match Thorn. A red dragon needs a Red Rider, don't you think? It'd be very fitting- very satisfying for me, as long as Thorn didn't go insane, and I don't think he would. Not for a while, that is. Yes… I think this is one of my best plans, and Murtagh, that is saying quite a bit, considering the extent of my power."

Murtagh wasn't sure what the King meant- he already was the Red Rider.

"And you'd already have a sword- The Red Ones. It's an electrifying thought! Exhilarating! Murtagh, just imagine it- imagine how the Varden and the elves and the dwarves and the Urgals and every living thing that dares crawl on my land would cower in terror before you. Murtagh-who-is-not-Murtagh; that is what they would think. And in the end, just the mere sight of you would make them go running to their mothers; I can see it now." The King sighed. "You would be the embodiment of my power; I would never need to leave this castle, even- just one word, and you'd be gone, and all the world would be under my guidance once more."

Galbatorix slumped back onto his throne, his eyes shut in bliss. Murtagh still didn't understand, though horrifying suspicions ran through his mind… who knew what the King's twisted mind could come up as punishment…

"Yes." The King sighed, thoroughly pleased with himself. "I wonder what your new name would be."

A boulder dropped into Murtagh's stomach… no, it couldn't be…

The King opened his eyes and laid them upon Murtagh, driving daggers through the Red Rider's mind. Murtagh realized he couldn't breathe, couldn't think-

And the King smiled, the expression of insanity and a love of destruction.

"Murtagh the Shade."

The breath left Murtagh's system in once whoosh; the horror coursed through his system, paralyzing him, stopping him from breathing, from thinking, from seeing-

A vision of himself, with red eyes, scarlet hair, and skin as pale as death stared at him, smiling at him wickedly.

"You may go now, Son of Morzan." The King said, waving his hand towards the door. "I think we'll change you next week. You'll just be back from Dras-Leona, and what a surprise it'll be for the Varden, to see the improved Murtagh. Begone!"

Murtagh couldn't see the hallways as he staggered through the castle; he couldn't hear the whispers that trailed him; he couldn't smell the dinner waiting for him; he couldn't feel anything, emotionally or physically- all was a tangled mess, frozen and numb. Thorn was paralyzed with fright, with shock; Murtagh didn't realize he had reached his rooms until he had opened the door.

With his eyes glazed over and his movements jerky, Murtagh failed to make any cohesive thought; it stuttered and faltered, incomplete and irrational…

Murtagh leaned over the wash basin, feeling hollow and numb. It was all too much to take; he felt the fissure in his mind tear further, ripping his mind apart. It was all insanity, all madness-

He felt Halia's eyes upon him, but she had the consideration to not interrupt him.

Murtagh blinked to stare at his rippling reflection in the water, and the vision of the Shade stared back at him, still smiling. He reached for the book at his right-

His hand was shaking.

It trembled so badly he could hardly grasp the leather-bound pages. With fingers like frozen sticks he let it drop to the side, gripping the edge of the basin with all his might, trying to steady his hands.

The water was cold and inviting… maybe it had all been a dream…

Murtagh dunked his entire head in the liquid, pulling out of the ice with a gasp. It burned his skin and slapped him in the face, pulling him back from his mind's numbness-it was all so sick and twisted and wrong and-

"Murtagh." Halia was at his side, her hand gentle on his shoulders. Concern dripped from her tone; Murtagh was embarrassed that she had seen him that way, but it was too late to do anything about it.

And his hand was still shaking.

She put her gentle, soft hand on his, steadying his vibrating.

Murtagh closed his eyes, but no matter how tight he screwed them shut, he could not banish the vision of himself as a Shade. It stared him in the face, laughing at his turmoil, glorying in his power…

_We are Zar'oth!_ It laughed. _We are the Bringer of Misery!_

And that's when Murtagh snapped.

He maintained some semblance of control, around Halia; he took his hand back, forcing himself to be gentle, to not lose himself. The door seemed farther away than ever before; he was about to step out into the hallway, his blood boiling, his mind screaming for something to destroy-

Her hand, firmer this time, stopped him. She tugged on his shoulder, and when Murtagh spun around, his eyes daring her to stop him, his mind sputtered at the sight of her.

Her eyes were determined, glaring at him. "You're not the monster, Murtagh." She told him. "I don't know what just happened or what the King just did, but please, save the bloodshed. Let the true beast be the killer."

And Murtagh was drowning in her eyes, in those paralyzing orbs… and he realized that he was losing that sight as well as his sanity.

Thorn was of no help; the castle shook with his fury, with his anger, and a crack ran up the opposite wall.

"Let's go to the dragonhold, Murtagh." Halia murmured, gentler, quieter.

She pushed Murtagh out the door, leading him to the dragonhold rather than the other way around. Murtagh mentally wandered in a black abyss, chased by Zar'roth… he couldn't live like that, as a true Fury; he would be a perfect monster, a perfect horror…

Murtagh, Zar'roth, the Shade.

* * *

So, fifteen reviews and I'll post Wednesday! (Oh, and for ya'll who are wanting an Eragon chappie, I just finished writing one- Chapter 36... I think. Or 37.


	33. Chapter 33 One Last Chance

I am so sorry- I know I promised to update yesterday and I'm so sorry! I didn't have internet! I'd make today a double update, but the next chapter... I just can't do it.

I'm so glad ya'll loved last chapter- I asked for 15 reviews and got 20. :) I PROMISE to post again tomorrow to make up for not posting yesterday. Even if it means biking to the library to use a computer with internet. XP

Anyway, I still was productive- I'm working on a Sons of War trailer for YouTube! All that's left is the audio... I hope to have it posted by the end of next week. We'll see!

Okay, here's the Vault!

**Chapter 33: One Last Chance**

Halia had her hands full in the dragonhold. Murtagh sat worthlessly to the side, numb; Thorn nearly stepped on him several times. Shruikan was muttering curses, and to combine the problem, none of them would explain what had happened.

Her exasperation doubled as another crack worked its way up the wall of the dragonhold, splitting the stone like the fissure in Murtagh's mind.

Zar'roth smiled at him, eager for blood, eager for destruction.

And Murtagh realized that the moment he became Zar'roth, saving Eragon would be impossible, and ever having forgiveness from the rest of the world would be lost.

Forever.

To live, to die, to be possessed by spirits; it made no difference in Murtagh's fate- only the security of his mind.

But the chill that had frozen his bones was slowly thawing, starting in his fingers, working closer towards his mind, towards his heart-

His fingers began burning, throbbing from the heat. And from his fingers the flames spread to his mind, to his eyes; he had unfinished business.

Unfinished business that could be completed, though not by him…

His legs were stiff and sore, but Murtagh managed to rise to his feet; his vision seemed clearer, crisper- perhaps it was from his newfound appreciation that his eyes were not red.

"Halia." He began as she fluttered around Shruikan; "Come. It is wasting your time; let them settle down on their own."

_I'm not going to settle down!_ Thorn roared, _Not on this day! He can't, Murtagh! He can't! I'll tear off his head and arms and legs and eat his hands and-_

"Come." Murtagh urged, leading a reluctant Halia away from the scene of the tantrums. Thorn shared in his pain; they simply expressed it in different ways.

Murtagh took her to the library again; they had no time to waste, no time to spare. And with each passing moment Murtagh grew more and more aware of his own mortality; how weak he really was, magician and Dragon Rider aside- he was just a man.

Just one man.

And for once in his sick and twisted existence, he was going to do the right thing, the good thing. When he was no longer himself- Shade or dead, he didn't care- at least one person, one solitary person, would know that he was not a monster.

Just one person.

And like before, the hours whittled away, slipping by, though Murtagh kept careful track of them. With each passing moment he kept a careful watch on Halia; he couldn't explain why- he just noticed her silent quirks; how she tucked her hair behind only her right ear, how she ran her finger under words as she read them, how her brow furrowed in concentration, revealing the slightest of creases on her forehead. He saw the way she stood perfectly still when struggling with difficult passages, how she relaxed only when she saw the meaning.

And he couldn't help but smile. It wasn't a full smile, of course; it was one of his twitching-cheek type grins. He never really smiled, of course. But the burning in his hands fueled a new rage, a new fury that gave him power like he didn't know; it was wild, untamed- the anger of a thousand trapped souls, screaming to be freed.

A plan began forming in his mind, fueled by the passion of his hatred and the pain of his fate…

Just one more chance.

One more chance to kill, and one more chance to redeem.

Murtagh sat at one of the desks and summoned parchment and ink, scribbling down apologies for crimes he did not commit and futile pleas for forgiveness. Doubt raged in his mind- they would not listen, they would not forgive, they would not see the Truth- but he saw no reason to give up, to abandon all hope.

She had given him hope.

It was a strange notion, an unusual insight; Murtagh watched her again, smiling at her eagerness as she flitted from book to book, shelf to shelf. In such a hopeless place, she was a light.

And the light was dimming.

Murtagh could see the end in sight; he knew his days were truly numbered. He couldn't place the need that sprang in his mind, the need for others to know the Truth, that he wasn't a monster, that he never wanted to commit any of the atrocities he had…

At least one person, one solitary person, would know- even when he was a Shade, or dead- that he was not the heartless, cruel person his father had been, that he was not the vicious puppet of the King…

Another smile crept across his features, bordering on the edge of madness, the need was so forceful; he had crafted a new name for himself. He signed the bottom of the letters- there were three- and folded them up, sealing them tight against supporters of the Empire. Tucking them in a bag he had, he looked up to see Halia absorbed in another book.

The need, the intensity for revenge swelled in his chest, amplifying his fury-

One more chance…

"Halia." He hated interrupting her, especially when her search was so important- he wanted her healed as well- but it was their last chance for true vengence. "I have a request of you."

"Yes, Lord Murtagh?" She asked. Ugh- there was 'lord' again. He was not her 'lord'- he had never been.

The doubts began creeping over him again; it was wrong to ask so much of her, but it was so right to give her one last chance…

"Karth and Furdor- you agree that they need to be killed?"

Murtagh had intended it to be a rhetorical question, but her expression turned his tongue to lead, and he could do little but gawk at her. Her eyes were burning once more; _if looks could kill_…

There was a challenge in her gaze, a driving force the equivalent of an avalanche urging him on, desperate for vengence, for justice…

One last chance…

"I believe we have another opportunity to vanquish them."

She slammed the book shut and put it back on the shelf, her search forgotten, the need that both of them felt pulsing through their veins, adrenaline already pumping through Murtagh's system. He did not need a verbal answer; Halia had silently told him that she was more than willing, she was even eager-

He remembered her fury, her anger, glad that he was not on the receiving end of that rage.

His cheek twitched again- why did it want to smile, on such a night? Where Halia could be hurt, even killed, where they could both be injured, where they could meet the King's wrath yet again-

His mind, though, answered his question. He wanted to smile because he could finally have the vengence he lusted after; he wanted to smile because justice could finally work its brutality on Karth and Furdor…

And their secret would die with them, leaving Murtagh to care for Eragon and Saphira- if only his true name would change!

_ Help us, _said the ancient voice_, and we will help you._

But how could Murtagh help the eldunari? Oromis' words rang in his ears, but he could not open the Vault, much less free Galbatorix's servants.

But killing Karth and Furdor- weakening them enough that Halia could finish them off- would be a step in the right direction.

They stopped in the room to further arm themselves; Halia with her sword and the dagger in her sleeve, Murtagh with Zar'roc and a knife in his boot. Kidasku still hadn't appeared; Murtagh doubted he would, but the hours were whittling away…

And then came the true adrenaline jolt. Murtagh and Halia started running through the hallways as Murtagh located the magicians, who were headed towards the stables.

Charging through the labyrinth of corridors and musty chambers, the pair made a silent plan, simple- how Murtagh liked it- and for once, they would be on offense, rather than defense. They would be the attackers, they would be the victors-

Murtagh slid to a halt, another taste touching his mind. Yanking Halia back as he swore under his breath, Murtagh turned down a different hallway, off course, a longer though more discreet route.

_The King was coming._ He hastily explained.

_And Karth and Furdor?_

_Are nearly drunk._ _They're by the stables- I believe they're leaving the city_. Murtagh could imagine where too.

Hurrying through an empty corridor, Murtagh realized how he had nothing to lose, save Thorn; Halia, though, had everything. Her life, firstly. She had that- more than Murtagh did. And she was so close to freedom… so close!

And if she was hurt…

He could heal her, again. Murtagh was arguing with himself, trying to convince himself once more that it was the right thing to do, getting her into danger. She deserved another opportunity for vengence, she needed a chance to serve justice, she wanted to hurt the magicians for what they had done to her-

But was it still right to risk her life? She was willing- all too willing- but he had promised to protect her, to defend her, and this was the opposite-

With his wandering thoughts Murtagh had barely noticed where they were. The roundabout route had taken them straight past the throne room-

And it was empty.

Murtagh skidded to a halt, Halia smoothly stopping beside him as he turned to look at the door. The King was moving towards the city, out of the castle; how often did that happen? Murtagh remembered Angela, how they were supposed to meet soon-

But here was his chance-!

"Murtagh?" Halia asked; she had noticed his distraction.

_Go!_ Thorn crowed. _Go, see what you can do!_

The fissure started again- the dull throbs that preceded the agony of his ripping mind. Was it the eldunari? But before, the ancient voice had simply wiped away his walls, not caused him pain, and Sicorro had never hurt him…

The black door glared at him, daring him to pass uninvited into Galbatorix's sanctuary.

The fissure started burning, the first tear starting down his forehead…

And Murtagh smiled. It wasn't the twitching cheek that he knew, nor the half-smile that never really got anywhere. It was a full smile, one filled with the pleasure of rebellion, of overthrow, of the thought of defeating the King, of being _free_…

He faced the doors, the maniac smile still across his face. So many people had entered through those doors and never left; his own father and probably his mother had gone through them, willing slaves, on Morzan's part…

Murtagh had been dragged through those doors, half-alive, from the dungeons; he had been pulled there by force through his vows.

And for the first time, he was walking through those doors by his own free will.

Two confident strides, the password, and a heave later, the massive doors groaned open, and the frigid temperature in the throne room seemed colder than ever before. He knew Halia was confused, but she was silent, as if she understood that something momentous was about to happen.

Murtagh took a few steps further into the room, suddenly eager to be there. Each breath left a cloud of vapors in front of his face; his every step echoed in the lofty ceiling, and the ominous click of the doors shutting behind him only encouraged his adrenaline-fueled rebellion.

He would die the Son of None, not Zar'roth.

Murtagh paused, a handful of steps away from the throne. Halia hung around the door, anxious; Murtagh scarcely had the concentration to notice her.

Here was the Rock of Kuthain, and here was his chance to take his authority, to become its' Keeper…

But how?

Murtagh moved a few steps closer, so he could have touched the throne. Wisps of frozen air came off of the Rock, like it was carved from ice: how could the King stand it? Even through the heap of furs he had to be cold, unless he had some kind of spell-

_No._ Murtagh reprimanded himself. _Concentrate_.

So the Red Rider took another step- he wasn't even an arm's length away from the Rock. He circled it like a vulture eyeing its next meal- critically- looking for any sign of entrance. He had never seen the King enter it before; he had only seen him come out, and that was when he appeared with Thorn's egg.

That time, the throne had slid smoothly, silently, into its typical position. Murtagh had been so beaten at the time, he hadn't noticed the peculiarity of the situation- that a freezing hunk of stone was moving over a gaping hole in the throne room floor.

_Shruikan?_ He asked.

_Speak your name._ The dragon suggested.

Murtagh stood up straighter, holding his chin a tad higher, his hand wrapped around Zar'roc.

"I, Murtagh, Rider of Thorn, command you to open." He told the stone, ignoring how foolish part of him felt- after all, he was talking to a rock.

He waited a moment with baited breath, waiting for the creaking, grinding sound of ice on stone, for the throne/Rock to shudder and move aside, to accept him as its next Master, its newest Keeper-

Nothing happened.

He glared at the black Rock, daring it to defy him for long. He would be a better master than Galbatorix!

"I, Murtagh, Rider of Thorn, General of the Empire, command the Rock of Kuthain to open!" He growled, a tad louder. His voice faintly echoed in the chamber, whispering like a hushed crowd.

The Rock did not budge.

_Shruikan!_ Murtagh cried. _A memory_!

But Shruikan had none- he, like Thorn, had never been in the throne room, and the King was too careful to show Shruikan the key to his power…

Murtagh glared at the Rock, frustrated. An eldunari told him to open it, and then denied him access? He was begged to free the souls within, and then they did not explain how to open their own prison?

Maybe he was going insane. Perhaps he was dilusional- the fissure, the ancient voice, his conversation with Oromis- he had to be mental-

_Speak your name._ The Ancient Voice ordered, shoving aside Murtagh's shields a bit rougher than before. Murtagh hated the deep, rich touch of the unknown eldunari; it treated him like the King did- scum to be ordered around, to be used-

_Free us, and we will free you._ The Voice began, a bit gentler. _Speak your name, and the Rock will open. _

"I, Murtagh-"

_Tell the elf to go to the dragonhold._ The Voice told him. _You are to be the Keeper, not her. _

_ She is worthier than I._ Murtagh retorted.

_But we chose you, not her. She lacks control. _

_ And I do? I cannot even control when I stay and when I leave this damn-_

_ We speak of different kinds of control._ The Ancient Voice replied, chiding Murtagh like an old teacher, gentle but firm. _Now tell her to go; we have business, Murtagh. _

_No._ Murtagh snarled_. I am the only person who will care for her- she's not leaving my sight. _Not yet, at least.

The Ancient Voice seemed pleased by this; Murtagh didn't know why. Thorn basked in the glory of their uninvited guest; he was of no help to Murtagh_. Further proof of our excellent choice._ The eldunari mused. _Loyal to the bitter end_.

_She will not have an end_. Murtagh replied, determined.

_No, no, not her end. Yours, or Galbatorix's, whoever goes first_. The Ancient Voice clarified_. And we're on your side, Murtagh. That's the entire reason you are here. Now take her to the dragonhold, or somewhere you deem safe, and return to tell the Rock your name. _

Murtagh opened his eyes, and only then realized that they had been closed in the first place. He could see shadows dancing before his eyes- was that a wing? And a tail? But the picture fragmented before he could make sense of it.

The eldunari were on his side- someone, something, for the first time in his life wanted him to live, him to succeed, him to survive…

"I will return." Murtagh whispered, knowing somehow that the Ancient Voice would hear him. "And we will be free."

A gust of cold wind ruffled his hair and sent a spike down his back, like he had just uttered an Unbreakable Vow. The Ancient Voice left, though Murtagh could tell it was pleased by his words; an unexpected chill settled in his mind with the eldunari's warmth gone. He turned, stiff. How long had it been?

Halia watched him, her eyes frightened but curious. She stood between the doorway and the throne, afraid to come closer, afraid to leave.

And Murtagh knew what he had to do; he realized that their time had run out, the sand in the hourglass had emptied.

"Come." He murmured gently. He didn't want her to be frightened; he didn't want her to remember him and shudder.

And he realized that they did not have one last chance.


	34. Chapter 34 Sometimes Goodbye is

I know the site is having problems with reviews, so... PM me to leave a word! Thanks!

Here's the chappie I promised... and it's on time, too. :) I am particularly fond of this one, though I wasn't sure about the last line... eh... tell me what you think of it!

AyameRose: Yes, Murtagh realized it's his true name that the Vault wants, but he doesn't want to use it. :/ In his mind, his true name is his chains, and the thought of anyone else knowing it makes him shudder.

Yes! So, on you go! Enjoy! (Blufinger, I'm particularly interested in your opinion of this chapter- just to let you know!)

**Chapter 34: Sometimes Goodbye Is a Second Chance**

Uru'baen was dark and quiet; eerie and hushed, like the sky just before a storm. Murtagh led Halia through the black streets, unable to speak; the day's weariness weighed him down, so he felt he was treading through a mire…

Zar'roth the Shade gloried in Murtagh's pain, but somehow, Murtagh fought back against the hopelessness- the eldunari, just the knowledge that they were on his side- gave him the strength to fight with Zar'roth, to contend against the warring factions of his mind.

But he was losing her…

Part of him wanted to keep her, the selfish part of him. But the other half of his mind- warring between right and wrong- argued that she had to leave, for their own good. She was a wonderful distraction to him, but he was nothing more than a monster, a lord, a warden, to her.

He watched her out of the corner of his eye, gliding beside him, unaware that her freedom was so close in sight. He had packed a satchel for her; it was on his back, and she asked no questions. She never did. It made him wonder whether she didn't care, or if fear stopped her from asking.

Sicorro was in the bag, at the very bottom. The King would be enraged if and when he found out Murtagh had lost him an eldunari, but Sicorro wasn't very strong, so it would blow over. If Murtagh was lucky. Some food was there too, dried fruit and a canister of water; the clothes she had made, the unfinished boots she had been working on; her sewing supplies. Murtagh had been thourough; he even included a book.

He chose it for a very specific reason. For one, it was a biography of Vrael, and he supposed she would appreciate it.

Secondly, it had a map of Uru'baen in it, and all of his notes scribbled around it.

She was smart enough that he did not need to explain it to her; she would realize the simple request he was making of her: to help others who had been caught like her. Like him. To save those who had no hope in Uru'baen.

In some ways, it hurt him, to ask such a massive thing of her; simple, but massive. It was wrought with danger, laced with peril, but absolutely necessary, in his opinion. If someone had been there to encourage him, to even talk to him, his life could have been drastically different…

A shape, a blur, darted across the street in front of them; a second quickly followed. The sight snapped Murtagh out of his wandering thoughts; they were safe, because the blurs had only been the werecats.

They paused, watching them from the shadows. Murtagh could only make out their yellow eyes in the darkness; he could imagine what they'd been doing all day. Kidasku would be… disappointed, that he had missed the day's excitement.

"Are the magicians here?" Halia asked, her voice meeting the darkness.

Murtagh gnawed the inside of his cheek. "No. They're gone."

He watched her reaction from the corner of his eye- she bit her lip and said no more. At least she wasn't crying or anything. Her eyes narrowed, watching the werecats.

Murtagh turned his attention back on them.

"Are you coming or not?" Kidasku asked, his voice carrying across the silent street. "It's not like we have all day."

Solembum blinked at them, but said nothing.

"It's this way." Kidasku continued, as if Murtagh didn't know where the gate to the city was.

The yellow eyes vanished, and Murtagh and Halia followed their unusual guides, silent. He knew she wanted to know what was going on, but still, she did not ask. Murtagh took a detour, like before; he headed towards the stables, where a gray war horse woke to his gentle touch.

Murtagh wrapped Tornac's hooves in cloth to muffle the sound and hide any potential trail; he could not meet Halia's eyes, though he could feel them drilling into his back.

He was losing them…

Murtagh readjusted his invisible mask, hiding the pain that threatened to burn through him. He had survived worse; then why did it sting as badly as a knife through the chest? Why did it knock the breath out of him, like he had been thrown to the ground? Why?

He shoved the morbid thoughts away, trying to decide what he would do with the last days of his life. There would be Dras-Leona, of course; if he was lucky, the Varden would kill him. If not… well, he didn't want to think about that possibility. He and Thorn would fly whenever they could, wherever they wanted too…

And that's how Thorn would remember him; the man who wanted freedom and nothing else.

But Murtagh was lying to himself- he knew he wanted more, he wanted so much! He wanted true friends, people who would support him to whatever end, someone who would always be there, someone who would believe that he wasn't a monster, someone, anyone, who would trust him…

And he was losing the one person who had ever come close to that.

Ignoring the agony didn't work, like it did with physical pain. It only drummed harder, angrier; it _wanted_ to be noticed, it _wanted_ to make him miserable…

It was very, _very_, successful.

"There you are." Angela quipped. "I was beginning to wonder if I'd have to wait all night."

Murtagh looked up, and there the witch stood, next to a tired-looking dun horse. Her wild hair was underneath a large hood, so Murtagh could only make out her nose in the darkness. Solembum stood next to her, still silent, his yellow eyes unblinking. Kidasku gave Murtagh an odd look, raising an eyebrow.

"Is this the package?" Angela asked, and Murtagh knew she was looking at Halia. Halia, though, was looking at him. He didn't dare meet her gaze.

"Yes."

"You said there were two."

"Kidasku is the other." Murtagh answered.

The older werecat jumped, like he had been slapped. "What? What? What nonsense is this?"

"You're leaving Uru'baen, Kidasku. You're getting what you wanted."

Kidasku, for once, stood speechless before them, stunned.

"It all plays out wonderfully, brother." Solembum began, his raspy voice whispering. "You go and tell what you know; I will stay, and take up your task."

Murtagh had nothing to say to that; Solembum had never spoken to him, so he assumed his life would be a bit quieter.

"But my plan!" Kidasku hissed, a touch of panic in his tone.

"I will continue it; shall we say, I'll start the second phase."

The werecats exchanged knowing looks, and Kidasku sighed, defeated. "Fine, fine, I will go, Murtagh. I will leave Uru'baen for the first time in over a hundred years…" He sniffed. "I believe I shall miss Galby's antics."

"You'll be the only one." Murtagh muttered, tying Halia's bag over Tornac's back.

"We bring you back your horse and the first thing you do is get rid of it again?" Angela snorted. "You are a strange, strange man, Murtagh."

She grated on Murtagh's nerves. "I have Thorn; I can't bring Tornac with me."

"Too true. Now, may I introduce myself? Atra du evarinya ono varda, elda-vodhr." She began, turning towards Halia with her hand twisted over her sturnum.

Halia stood rooted beside Murtagh. She turned two wide eyes to Angela, to Murtagh, then back at her. "Atra esterni ono thelduin, Angela-elda."

"Well, now that that's over, come! I'd like to reach the Varden by next week, if we're lucky, so we'd better get going."

She knelt by Solembum, something like a smile across her features. But Murtagh was distracted from that sight; Halia laid a firm hand on his arm, forcing him to look her in the eyes.

They were smoldering, but he did not know why.

"May I have a word?" She snarled. "In private?"

Murtagh put a silencing shield around them, and reluctantly met her gaze again. He didn't know what to say; what could he say? Was she angry with him?

"How long?" She asked.

"What?"

"How long have you known- how long have you been planning this?" Her hand jerkily gestured at Angela and Tornac; Murtagh was paralyzed by the fire in her emerald eyes.

"We arranged it yesterday." He murmured.

"And you did not think of telling me?"

Murtagh closed his eyes and tried to breathe properly; how could he explain this to her? It was a small comfort that she was only angry that she was uninformed. "It was for your own safety."

"Because I am weak." She glared at him; his courage faltered.

"Not as weak as you were." He whispered, attempting gentleness.

Hopelessness flooded her eyes, dousing out the fire, smothering the flames that made her eyes so bright. "Why?"

Murtagh froze, stunned. Did she just say- was she saying- "Why?"

"Yes, that's what I asked. What did I do wrong, to deserve this condemnation? Where did I step out of line, when did I hurt some unspoken plan?"

Condemnation? The word rang in Murtagh's mind like a gong. What was she talking about? They were clearly on different tracks, opposite opinions- "You… you've done nothing wrong; I don't understand- you never-"

Understanding smacked Murtagh across the face- but it seemed so strange, so unthinkable- "You think… this is a punishment?"

The hopelessness in her eyes answered his question more than words could ever say.

Murtagh's breath hitched; this was not how he imagined them parting. "I'm trying to save you, Halia. You don't belong here; it's so wrong for me to keep you jailed here, for you to have to endure this place, this- this hellhole, you never-"

"I don't want to go."

The words took their time, working their way through Murtagh's brain one at a time. Was the pain from her words, or from the fissure? Was there a second meaning lingering in her face?

They locked eyes, blue and green.

Was it possible that she…? No, no, Murtagh argued. No. Even though she was of unquestionable value to him, he was nothing more than a lord to her. He was sure of it… but an impossible suspicion caught in his throat.

"I don't want to go." She repeated, whispering. "I can't go back. I can't."

That's where the hopelessness thrived; in her fear. Murtagh saw it now, the terror of returning to her people.

"I can't let you stay here any longer." Murtagh murmured, still locked in her eyes. "It's wrong- you don't deserve this."

"I can't go back." She was on the verge of tears, starting to blink violently to hold back her tears. Did she know how she made Murtagh tremble at the sight of her terror? "I'd be worthless. I don't remember- I can't use magic-"

"They'll help you." Murtagh replied, "They'll understand."

He could see how she didn't believe him; Murtagh wanted nothing more than to just wrap her in his arms and show her that she would be fine.

But he couldn't, so he settled for putting both of his hands on either side of her smooth, warm, soft face, focusing her attention on him. His thumb swiped away a tear that dared escape.

"You need to go home, Halia." He whispered. "You'll be as invaluable to them as you have been to me. Sicorro is in your bag; he'll help you. You know things your people have never been able to dream of for the past hundred years; please, help them overthrow the King."

"But what about you?" She whispered back, blinking furiously.

Part of him wondered why she wondered about him, why she cared. "Don't think about me, Halia." It burned to tell her that; to tell the one person who had ever been loyal to him to ignore and blot him from her memory. "Concentrate on helping Islanzandi and the elves. For my sake, please."

She was on the verge of more tears; small tremors ran down her back. "But you'll be a Shade."

She knew, then. Shruikan must have calmed down enough to tell her.

"Then this is goodbye." He croaked.

"But he can't, Murtagh. He can't. It's wrong; you're not a monster-"

Angela gave a discreet cough; Murtagh glared briefly before returning his attention to Halia.

"You need to leave, Halia, for both our sakes. I don't know what I'll be next week; I can't bear the thought of hurting you. Please, just go. You need to be safe again. You need to be free."

"But Karth and Furdor- you need me-"

"I'll manage." Murtagh sighed. "I always have. Maybe becoming a Shade will change my name; I'll be able to kill them then."

He meant it honestly, but a few tears slipped down Halia's cheeks.

"Warn them." Murtagh said, softer than he had ever spoken before. "Tell them what I am."

"You are…" She took a steadying breath, "One of the bravest men I have ever known, and the noblest, by far." Two more tears spilled from her eyes as Murtagh reeled. "Promise me- promise you won't give up."

_I already have_. Murtagh wanted to reply. But something stopped him; here was one person who wanted him to live, who wanted him to be victorious…

"I promise- under one condition."

She nodded, and Murtagh pulled back his hands to take the three letters from a pouch around his waist. "These are letters for Queen Islanzandi, King Orik, and Lady Nasuada. Promise me you'll deliver them- not personally, but that they reach the right people."

"I promise." She took the letters and stuffed them in her boot. Murtagh saw a tear, like a glittering diamond, fall from her eyes and shatter on the dirty cobblestone road.

When she straightened again, she had regained most of her composure. Her eyes were still bloodshot, but no longer swimming in tears.

She mounted Tornac in one swift move, squaring her shoulders and sitting taller in the saddle. Angela, too, mounted her horse, and Kidasku lept onto Tornac and sat in front of Halia.

"Be safe." Murtagh ordered, in his roughest tone. Soldiers balked under that authority, but Angela only laughed, and a touch of a smile reached Halia's eyes.

_ Tell Shruikan he will always be in my thoughts._ Halia asked, her green eyes meeting his for the last time. _Goodbye, Murtagh. Thank you._ Halia told him, the same, small smile on her face. _Remember your promise._

_ And mind yours._ Murtagh replied. _Be safe_.

She gave him a fleeting smile, turned, and was gone. He watched them until Tornac's swishing tail disappeared behind the wall, feeling more and more hollow the farther she rode from him. And when she vanished, he felt like a void- empty, echoing, and utterly lonely.

She was gone.

Solembum vanished into the night; he, at least, would be a peaceful companion, if Murtagh ever saw him again.

She was gone.

Murtagh stood frozen where he was, a chill settling in his bones. After all they had been through, the magicians were still alive, his true name had not changed, and she could no longer help him. The Vault of Souls was still closed to him, Galbatorix still reigned, Eragon and Saphira were still captives, and Murtagh could do nothing about it.

She was gone.

His one light had been snuffed out; his one hope had been smothered by his own doing.

_ Because it was the right thing to do._

And that's when he realized he loved her.


	35. Chapter 35 The Flaw in the Plan

I'll warn you all now- I'm facing a bout of writer's block. It's pure torture, and I probably won't update until I've slain the monster.

And on the note of torture, here's an Eragon chapter. 

**Sorrel14**- Your review came just when I needed encouragement; I'm so glad you've liked it, so glad!

**That One Guy Jim**- Yes, I do have a plan. But no, I can't go into any more details, because that would be spoiling some crucial details!

**Aren**- Seriously? CP should read this? Dang... maybe... maybe I'll be able to meet him on his book tour... maybe then... if it happens, I'll tell you!

Okay- I won't have a review promise for reasons stated above, but- but- please review! **  
**

**Chapter 35: The Flaw in the Plan**

Eragon had been dreaming of a beautiful golden wood, but the other prisoner just had to disrupt his peaceful rest.

"Get up!" The stranger hissed. "Get up, Argetlam! Before I have to throw something at you!"

"What?" Eragon asked groggily.

"You heard me, since you are awake! I was about to slap you."

"You can't slap me." Eragon argued. "We're tied down." It didn't take a master to figure that one out.

"Well, something as little as that is not going to stop me." He huffed. "The magicians are going to be here soon- do you remember the plan?"

"What plan?" Eragon asked.

The prisoner sighed. "When they come- I think you call them Fat and Chunky, you mumble when you sleep- I am going to make them angry. Then you are going to take the energy from the air, and free yourself while I distract them. Aye?"

"Aye."

"Good. So you're not completely lost. When you get up, you're going to knock them out. Or kill them. Whichever works out for you. Then you're going to free me."

"Aye."

"Then we're going to get out of here."

"Aye."

"No questions today? That's fine by me. You just do your part, and I'll do mine, and by the end of today we'll be out of here."

Eragon paused, his broken thoughts straining to come together again. "Where exactly are we?"

The prisoner sighed. "We're in Helgrind- a rock formation just beyond Leona Lake. You've been here before- you had to rescue Katrina- your sister-in-law- from here."

"Oh." Eragon managed to say. How could he have been so silly? Of course he knew what Helgrind was, and where. It had been a hasty question, ill thought out.

"You're doing much better today." He commented. "You're not afraid of the prickly pear anymore."

"Prickly pear?" Eragon scoffed. "Why in the world would I be afraid of a prickly pear? Galbatorix is the real threat, and Murtagh and Thorn- but these magicians, I suppose, pose a problem too."

"Exactly." The prisoner said, almost gleefully. "Yes, you've improved quite a bit. There's nothing sleep can't mend, right?"

"What are you talking about?" Eragon asked, confused.

"Oh, nevermind. Anyway, do you think you'll be able to lead us out of here?"

Eragon paused, staring at the stone ceiling. "It'll be very difficult. I haven't seen much of Helgrind; perhaps I can filch some memories from Fat and Chunky before we leave."

"You'll have too." The prisoner said dryly. "I don't plan on dying today."

"But what of Saphira?" Eragon asked, sudden panic rising in his chest. Was she safe? Was she alright? "Where is she?"

"We'll have to find her, now won't we?" The prisoner mused. "Perhaps Murtagh would know something…"

"Murtagh?" Eragon snapped. "What does he have to do with anything?"

"Oh, besides for the fact that he probably knows where the King keeps everything of note, and besides that he lives in Uru'baen, and besides that he had a dragon called Thorn, I think he'd be a wonderful ally."

"I won't argue with that." Eragon muttered. "But he can't help us."

"Perhaps."

Eragon tried turning his head to look at the prisoner, but couldn't. "What do you mean, perhaps? He's a slave- he can't do anything."

"You and I are different, Eragon." The prisoner argued. "We feel different things. You feel Saphira, when you're close enough; I feel everything. The earth tells what's going on, if you're smart enough to listen."

Eragon vaguely remembered Arya saying something along the same lines- that she found him because the earth told her where to go. Something like that.

"And this has to do with Murtagh…?"

"Exactly. He's quite the character, isn't he? One of the strangest people I've met in my life- well, we haven't officially met, of course, but all the same. I'm going to find him one of these days and beat him over the head."

"That'll make two of us." Eragon muttered. "What are you going to beat him for?"

"Well, our fat friends are terrified of him. If he only showed his face here, that would be enough to set them off their rocker. They'd go crazy- crazier than you." The prisoner paused. "And then, once I've gotten my point across, I'd heal him- probably."

"And why would you heal him?" Eragon sighed.

"Because he's a remarkable character. And I like him- I think. We'll see."

"You've never even met the man-"

"So? The earth is not biased. I probably know more about Murtagh than you do."

"Unlikely." Eragon muttered.

"We'll, we can call it a contest; Murtagh can be the judge. His life has been… interesting, the past few weeks. I'll leave it at that."

"And the earth told you this?"

"It gave a few details. Let's just say that it doesn't gloss over the antics of an insane King, and the effect on his right hand Rider."

"Of course not." Eragon muttered, beginning to get annoyed. He needed to get out of there, to help Saphira, to defeat Galbatorix-

"Maybe I should contact Murtagh right now. What do you think?"

Eragon rolled his eyes. Of course the prisoner couldn't do such a thing; it was ridiculous to even think of it. The amount of energy required…

"Fine then, have your doubts." He sniffed. "I will, one of these days. You'll see."

Eragon decided silence was the best way to answer such insanity, since the prisoner was so confident.

A silent pause passed; Eragon heard something outside the doors, a groan, perhaps, or a whisper.

"It's just a soldier." The prisoner murmured; Eragon had no idea how he knew. "He walked into a wall; his right eye is blind."

"And did the earth tell you this?"

"No." The prisoner scoffed, sounding slightly offended. "It's not like the soldier is a magician, Eragon. The throbbing in the right side of his face makes his mind quite open. Don't waste any of your energy, Eragon- wait one moment, and we'll see if I can make him come in. Perhaps you can take some of his energy. One moment."

The prisoner took a deep breath, whispered for Eragon to turn away- and screamed.

Eragon's hands strained against his fetters, wanting to clamp down over his ears, the sound was so horrifying. He heard the clang of metal over the agonized wail, and a sliver of light cut across the room- the door had opened.

"Shut it!" The soldier roared, standing in the doorway. "Shut it, or I'll gut you!"

"Go ahead!" The prisoner shrieked. "See what Karth and Furdor do when they realize I'm dead, and from a sword and not by torture!"

The soldier faltered; Eragon heard the truth of his words. Fat and Chunky would not be pleased…

"Then I'll just cut off your wiggly little fingers; or howabout your toes? That might do the trick!"

"Oh, go ahead!" The prisoner cackled. "Come and try! You've nothing to lose, and I'll just keep screaming."

Eragon couldn't decide whether or not he liked his companion- he found flaws in every turn. Hacking off limbs, like the soldier suggested, would only encourage the screaming.

But the soldier didn't care. He stormed into the room, a clang of metal that echoed in the room and reverberated in Eragon's ears a hundred-fold. There was the grating of a sword, or a dagger, being drawn from a sheath, and the soldier stepped closer-

And uttered a gasp of horror, just feet from the other prisoner.

"Yes, Javorn, you should fear me." The prisoner mocked him. "Just wait; I'll haunt your dreams the rest of your life, I'll shadow you when you're awake- go ahead, hurt me. I don't care.

"But think about those magicians, and the pain they could inflict on your family. Think of your dear wife as their prisoner, your children as their slaves. It's a harsh thought, isn't it? Go ahead- think of your precious little girl, cursed like I am, marked to forever be a freak. You know the magicians could do it. You know it wouldn't hurt them.

"So, Javorn, are you going to follow through with your threat? Are my fingers and toes worth the pain you'd inflict on your own family?"

Eragon could tell the prisoner had more to say, but with a clatter, the soldier fled from the room like demons were chasing him.

The prisoner cackled again, a sound that sent shivers down Eragon's spine. "The idiot!" He laughed. "Oh, Eragon, this is our day! He dropped his dagger! Oh, please, I just wish the magicians would hurry up- I never thought I'd say that! Ha- wait till they come, wait till we have our sweet, sweet revenge…"

"You can't reach it."

"That won't stop me." The prisoner retorted. "It'd take mountains and death to stop me."

"I think you're insane." Eragon spat. "Thinking you can reach Murtagh, saying that you can pick up a dagger when you're chained to a table. Madness, I say! You're as thick as a rock!"

"Oh, am I?" The prisoner crooned, his voice smooth and slippery. "Just yesterday, Eragon, you were the one who was insane."

"No I wasn't."

"You wouldn't exactly remember being insane, now would you? You were insane, undoubtedly. I'll prove it to you later."

"What's wrong with now?" Eragon snapped.

"I'm busy." The prisoner replied.

"You're lying, that's what. We don't have anything to do in here except talk- you can't be busy."

"I am- just watch the shadows. I'm trying to pick up the knife, and it requires all of my concentration. We will both appreciate it in the end if you shut up."

Eragon wanted to wring the prisoner's neck- that would keep him busy. But all the same, he watched as shadows appeared in the black room, a purple light issuing from the prisoner.

The outline of a knife crept up the wall, cradled by the violet magic. But how? The prisoner wasn't saying anything, and he most certainly was not an elf… he had to be a very, very powerful magician. But how, then, had he been captured?

"You're-"

The knife clattered to the floor, the purple magic vanished, and the room was plunged back into darkness.

"Fool!" The prisoner shrieked. "I told you, I needed to concentrate! Do you want to stay here any longer? What are you, mad? Oh right- I had forgotten! You are! You're afraid of prickly pears and of enemies who fly over the moon! You're insane! You're worthless! We're never going to get out of this hellhole, and it's going to be your fault!

"We'll be dead soon, you know. It's not like Fat and Chunky are going to let us live forever in here. If we're lucky, we'll die. If not… I try not to think of that prospect. We'll be taken to Uru'baen, undoubtedly, and then the King will have his way with us! Just imagine it, Eragon- Galbatorix himself torturing us. Doesn't it sound just lovely? Wonderful? Remember Arya? Remember what happened to her? We're next! All because you are too curious to keep your mouth shut!

"We're going to die captives of the Empire! The Varden will fall, the elves and dwarves will retreat, the Urgals will be hunted to extinction, and Galbatorix will live forever! Do you know what that will mean, Eragon? Nasuada will be killed. Roran, too. I'm sure Galbatorix won't let it be a painless death, either. Then Katrina and all the people from Carvahall, and Arya, and your elven guards, and Orik, too, probably, and his wife, and all the dwarves you've ever met, and that annoying Surdan King- I won't miss him- and the Nighthawks and those women you blessed-" The word was spit out like venom- "And everyone you've ever known and loved! And you- Eragon- will be remembered as a rebel! As a disturber of the peace! As an idiot farmboy who thought he could defeat the kind and generous and loving and admirable King Galbatorix! Who thought he should be king, that he was better than everyone else! That's how they'll remember you, Eragon. As a dim-witted nincompoop who didn't have the brains to realize he was fighting a losing battle! Who died in a god-forsaken black hole! Doesn't that sound wonderful? Just lovely! Right? WRONG! YOU IDIOT! DO YOU WANT TO LIVE OR NOT?"

The prisoner's voice had risen to a roar; Eragon laid perfectly still where he was, silent, as the prisoner huffed, fuming. Was he really useless? Hopeless? Worthless? No, no, he couldn't be- he couldn't. He was a Dragon Rider, the Varden needed him, Saphira needed him-

As if the prisoner knew what he was thinking, he began again, his voice a deadly whisper.

"Imagine what's happening to Saphira right now, Eragon." He crooned, driving daggers into Eragon's chest. "She was captured when you were; she's a prisoner too. If Fat and Chunky are her lords, imagine what they've done to her. Imagine how she has been tortured, how they've maimed her, hurt her; imagine the blood-"

Eragon could feel his anger straining to be freed, building and building until he felt he would explode-

"I wonder how they've kept her down, I mean, she's a dragon, so they must've cut off her legs and tail. Who knows- perhaps they simply shredded her wings…"

Eragon could see it in his mind's eye; Saphira- glorious, powerful, terrible, incredible, beautiful Saphira- bleeding in a cage that she could not escape…. Her wings ripped and punctured… her dangerous talons, gone, her claws reduced to bleeding, infected limbs… her tail, a bleeding stump like Thorns'…

And he lost all control.

With a roar louder than the prisoners', he pulled and tugged and fought against his chains, his anger giving him the strength to ignore the wailing agony of moving. It empowered him to snap the chains that bound his wrists, and like an animal it ravaged his mind, taking control.

An explosion rocked Helgrind, centered in that god-forsaken dungeon. To be precise, Eragon started that explosion, he fueled it, his anger not slowing even though he had lost much energy.

He lept from the table, his chains nothing more than red-hot piles of metal, and snarled, daring anyone to oppose him. Those magicians were going to die, if it was the last thing he ever did! He would kill them, he would avenge Saphira, he-would-cut-them-to-pieces-and-make-them-pay!

The prisoner started laughing, cackling, the sound melding with Eragon's infuriated roars and echoing in the black, smoky room. Eragon faintly saw something moving to his right- the rustling of chains, the step of a small foot- but his attention was elsewhere.

The doors had been blown open, and though it was black, Eragon willed himself to stumble forward, patting the wall and floor in an attempt to find it. He had to leave, he had to avenge Saphira…

Something small and hard slammed him from the back, throwing both of them to the floor, and Eragon's face was ground against the floor. He struggled to get up- the thing didn't weigh very much, perhaps sixty pounds- but for its size it had remarkable strength. It forced his hands to his side and pinned him to the floor with an Urgal's brutality; Eragon struggled to breathe.

And then he felt it- something was pulling all the energy from him, draining him of any strength… Saphira… but he could hardly think as his life force washed away, obeying the will of his second master…

"I told you I have to speak with Murtagh." The prisoner said matter-of-factly, his breath hot on the back of Eragon's neck. "You'll understand soon, Eragon, so I'm not apologizing for taking some of your energy."

Some? Part of Eragon's mind wanted to argue. The prisoner was killing him, taking all of his strength…

And then a roar shook his mind, so loud that Eragon didn't hear it at first. He knew- how, he didn't know- that the call would echo under every rock and ring in every crevice until it found the intended hearer, immune to time and space… It bellowed in his mind, a plea, an order, a charge and a promise…

_MURTAGH!_ The prisoner screamed, roared, bellowed, cried, shouted. _MURTAGH! THORN! HELP US, AND WE WILL HELP YOU! _

_ Murtagh! Thorn! Help us, and we will help you! _

_ Murtagh! Thorn! Help us, and we will help you! _

_ Murtagh! Thorn! Help us, and we will help you! _

The call kept echoing, but again, Eragon fell into blackness.

He only hoped he would wake up again.


	36. Chapter 36 Failure and Frustration

I think I'm over the writers block. I think. Now it's just getting back into the habit of writing every day... sigh. Thanks for all the tips and offers for how to get over the monster- they did help. :)

This chapter is a little bit different. I've done one like it before, Chapter... 17. Yes. So, here's Nasuada, Arya, and Roran! Enjoy, and don't forget to review! Oh, and Saphira's in here too. **  
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**Chapter 36: Failure and Frustration**

Nasuada leaned over her desk and put her head in her hands.

It was a disaster- everything. They had won Belatona, but that had been weeks ago, and the Varden had made no progress since. What could they do, without Eragon? She saw now how foolish it had been to put so much responsibility on him and Saphira; how she had taught the Varden to lean on them like an old man would a staff. The people were afraid to move on without their Rider; they were afraid to stray too far away from their Shadeslayer's sight.

Their food supplies were running low from their slow progress; the number of deserters had grown exponentially when it had never been a problem before. The Varden was even running out of money- again. Nasuada wanted another lace-like inspiration to strike her; she willed something, anything, from her weary mind, and slumped back in her chair when nothing happened.

She only hoped Angela would be more successful than the rest of the army.

The herbalist and Solembum had decided, quite of their own accord, that they were going to do some spying. Nasuada hadn't been told anything more, though she suspected Angela wanted to find Elva. She didn't know where any of them were anymore; they were as lost as Saphira. But there was the shred of hope that they could locate her, perhaps even save her- though that was a stretch- and even those magicians directing Helgrind would cower before her fury.

No one would survive that onslaught; Nasuada found morbid pleasure in the thought of Saphira ripping apart the Empire army surrounding Eragon. But wouldn't they have similar defenses around her? But where?

Nasuada tried to take a steady breath; she had to be strong, she had to revive the Varden- it would not fall under her watch! Never!

But her half-hearted energy faltered when she opened her eyes again and she saw the charts and maps and lists of things going wrong with the Varden. Everything was falling apart; everything that could go wrong had- she swiped at a tear that dared escape. She had to be strong. It was her duty- it was her responsibility, to keep the Varden alive.

It was too much.

It would be so much easier to just let it fall, to let the rebellion go its separate ways; perhaps it had been the wrong time to start the war. Perhaps they were always doomed; perhaps it had been insane to even begin such a task.

Easier, definitely; but that did not mean it was right.

With a tired sigh, she picked up her pen once more; it was her duty to remain hopeful through their misery, to be a light in the darkness, to be a rock amid the sand.

A rock. She wanted to laugh. A rock was defeating them.

Arya glared at the rock, at Eragon's prison, at the one place in Alagaesia that had more security than Du Wendelvarden. How many times had the Nasuada launched rescue parties, since they knew where Eragon was? Four? Five? Six? An impossible number of attempts, an unforgiving number of failures.

The magicians they suspected were Eragon's captors had protected Helgrind with traps, spells, and curses uncountable. The Empire's army was inside Dras Leona, and a sufficient clump had come to the rock, guarding it both around, on, and within. Checkpoints stopped anyone from coming and going without permission, but whose permission? Some were visible, but Arya suspected more were invisible- where were those?

They had devised every route imaginable; they had tried digging, but it spent too much energy to mine through the rock. They became invisible at one point, sneaking through the army's camp, but the checkpoints drove them away. They had disguised themselves, but halfway in, one of the magicians came running out screaming about an intruder. They could not fly in, obviously; the strength required would've killed them. They did not have the forces to launch a full-blown attack; the Varden was crawling towards Dras-Leona, trying to buy them some time.

But time was against them. It had always been- but with Eragon and Saphira incapacitated, hope slipped away like moonlight in someone's palm.

The Varden was crumbling- Arya saw it splitting at the seams. No one had the strength to persevere, and if Murtagh and Thorn were at the upcoming battle…

Arya shuddered. That would truly be disastrous; they would be free to demolish the entire army. The Traitors would perch on the highest tower of Dras-Leona and watch, waiting just like the Varden, and the armies would be at a stalemate…

Until the King decided Murtagh and Thorn needed something to do; or they became bored. That's when the homicide would begin, the Varden would crumble, Eragon would die in Helgrind, and the King would live.

The thought was unbearable.

Arya glared at Helgrind for the thousandth time, trying to find a weak link in the armor around Eragon's prison, knowing she would not find one…

Roran sprang forward, letting loose a furious war cry, and with one swing of his hammar, smashed the dummy to pieces. The shock of the impact vibrated his fingers and ran up his arm like lightning, but he ignored it, swinging the weapon over his head, and sent it flying down once more. The crunch of the dummy folding beneath his blows was satisfying- wonderful, even- and he stepped back to observe the damage done.

The dummy laid in parts at his feet, with jagged edges and splinters breaking off of the wooden contraption. The watermelon- like sphere that had been the head had been cloven in two; the boxy torso was now a foursome.

But something stirred in Roran's heart; it wasn't enough.

Nothing could ever be enough for what they had done to Eragon; nothing! If he had to rip apart all of Alagaesia to free him and Saphira, he would!

With another cry, he smashed the pieces of the head again, imagining it was the magicians he had seen in Arya's memory; he imagined how their blood would flow and how their warm brains would spill all over the ground, how their faces would forever be contorted in expressions of horror and agony…

Roran shuddered.

After everything they had done to Eragon and Saphira, Roran was willing to say it would be enjoyable to see them die. To be the one to kill them, even! He would have no regrets whatsoever. Only joy, to see such monstrocities banished from the waking world.

He would free Eragon if it was the last thing he did.

Saphira gnashed her teeth and snarled at the darkness, forcing herself to ignore the pain, to think of the thrill of flying and the silent deadliness of hunting, of the blood of war and the feeling of a happy mind. Of the taste of fresh deer and the smell of the air, high above the rest of the two-legged world, and the feeling of sand and dirt beneath her claws, and the knowledge that she was more beautiful than anything else.

Had been. Hopelessness threatened to drown her as the pain flared- was it in her mind or body? She was so torn and scarred and bruised and ripped and battered that she felt like she had been through a thousand battles in one day. Exhaustion made her limbs shake, trembling from the constant cold or the pain she didn't know.

But there had been a day of warmth- not of the magician's searing magic, their flames that devoured- but of a soothing, pulsing heat that renewed her faltering spirit and, for a few moments, made the pain vanish. Something that smelled strongly of open skies and blue fire and curiosity and leather had awoken her from fitfull rest; she heard a faint… a faint…

Was a that a roar?

She tried picking it out of her memory; though she had been wounded and exhausted and starving she remembered how the rock shook, how the walls quaked, how the anquished roar seeped through her prison and ignited hope in her.

Part of her whispered that it was Glaedr, returning to avenge his hatchling student, but the other half trampled that idea, because he was dead.

So it had been a dream, but a wonderful dream, because it meant Eragon was coming for her, he was going to save her-

But how could it have been a dream? She did not know. Part of her did not care, because they had Eragon, and he was her only reason for existence.

She had to free him… but she couldn't…

And the roar and the rich smell and the blissful hope had all faded, replaced by pain and blood and agony…

She didn't know when she fell asleep and when she awoke. The blackness made it impossible to determine day from night and waking from sleeping- but what had aroused her?

Not the magicians- they were not there, with their sickening stench of greed, tainted by fear and fire.

But she knew the voice that echoed in her mind, that rang in her head, faint but audible…

Murtagh, Thorn- help us, and we will help you.

Murtagh. Thorn. Bah! They were puppets, they were slaves, they were…

Hope.

The last shred of anything, but all the same, if anyone could defeat those magicians, if anyone could defy Galbatorix, if anyone could heal her and save Eragon…

She hated admitting it, but the truth could not be avoided…

They were hope, and the strangely familiar voice had called to them with the same request.

Hope.


	37. Chapter 37 Dras Leona

Wow. The last chapter wasn't very popular, I see. Not many reviews- only nine. :(

**But... I'VE GOT A PRESENT FOR YOU! **No, it's not just this chapter- I posted the youtube trailer! Just search Sons of War Inheritance Cycle fanfic trailer, and it should be the one at the top. My username is HungryVerbivore. :) Tell me if you like it!

**Oh- Thorn fans? You'll enjoy this chapter. :D **

**Read and review- 15 reviews, I'll say- and I'll post Tuesday instead of Wednesday!  
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**Chapter 37: Dras Leona**

When Murtagh awoke, the first thing he realized was how quiet his room was; quieter than usual. He could hear the hum of Uru'baen, and his mind touched the rest of the castle; all was fine.

But the silence disturbed him for some reason; he felt uncomfortable, sitting up in bed and rubbing his face. What was wrong?

She was gone.

He remembered the next moment; she was gone. He had sent her away with Angela.

He also remembered why: because it was the right thing to do. Because she did not deserve to be a captive in Uru'baen. Because she was in danger. Because he was going to become a monster- or at least, more of a monster. Because it would have been selfish of him to keep her there.

All those factors made it the right thing; they didn't make it the easy thing.

He sighed, flopping back into the sheets, trying to ignore the dull ache in his chest. It had been the right thing to do; he was sure of that. Possibly the last good thing he ever did; Zar'roth laughed at his pain, and Murtagh shoved the image away- he didn't need to be worrying about that quite yet. He still had a week to live.

One week, give or take a day. One week of being human, one week left with his own mind.

A shudder raced down his back. Truly, the King's madness knew no bounds, it had no restrains…

But what about Eragon and Saphira? That meant he had a week to rescue them; that would be the last good thing he ever did. He had a week to open the Rock of Kuthain, a week to become the Keeper of the Vault of Souls, and a week to kill Karth and Furdor.

Seven days, nine at the most, five at the least.

It was impossible; his Shade self could kill Karth and Furdor, he figured. But surely the eldunari would not make a Shade their Keeper; that would be hell freezing over.

Murtagh groaned, remembering that he had to leave for Dras Leona before noon. His day was only getting better- at least he and Thorn could leave the city, could fly and hunt together… and possibly for the last time.

He chewed the inside of his cheek again. What would happen to Thorn? He shuddered at the thought. He would go insane, Murtagh was sure. And he was so young… he had never known freedom, never understood true happiness, never even had a decent conversation with Saphira- one where they weren't trying to kill each other.

And it wasn't fair- it was so sick and twisted and wrong, Murtagh wanted to scream. No one deserved that, much less Thorn. He was too innocent, too curious, too naïve to understand how his whole life had been in chains…

And he was going to die too- his mind, at least.

Then if they were going to die, Murtagh decided, they were going to go down with a fight, with blood on their hands and smiles on their faces. They were going to die as happy as they could.

Murtagh's cheek twitched. That required a few things, on Murtagh's part: the King couldn't punish him for leaving a goodbye present, could he?

It would be a present to remember.

Murtagh sprinted through the hallways and burst into the dragonhold; they had to be far, far away before the King realized that Murtagh had made all of the suits of armor and various displayed weapons come to life. He had ordered twenty to specifically hunt Karth and Furdor- he had colored a few axes red, for style points- and the rest were free to roam the castle.

He could imagine how all the maids and noblepeople would be spooked, and the thought prompted a rare, exuberant smile. He found morbid pleasure in hurting the people in Uru'baen, and he had no reason to hide it.

Thorn gave him a crooked, dragon smile; he had helped, of course.

And suddenly they were flying; freed of the stifling city and their fears and hatred of the King, freed of the impending doom of Murtagh's Shadehood, freed from the sick-minded magicians, freed from the threat of marriage- Murtagh figured that the King couldn't use that card when he was a Shade- and freed from the icy throne room and the damned rock inside it.

The cool morning air reinvigorated Murtagh, lightened their spirits; they felt absolutely invincible. Undefeatable. Unconquerable, omnipotent, perfect. Who couldn't, flying at dizzying heights, where whole cities were the size of Murtagh's thumb and people were smaller than ants? The wind roared in Murtagh's ears, pulling at his clothes and hair- he closed his eyes and basked in the warm sunlight, glinting off of Thorn's scales…

And he was happy.

Almost.

Nothing could erase the ache of lonliness, of wondering where Halia was, whether she was safe, whether she was cold and hungry or warm and well-fed. Nothing could erase the shadow of doom, of Zar'roth, tormenting Murtagh's mind as if he couldn't wait for his day of control. Nothing could erase the eldunari's order to open the Vault, and the impossibility of the task. Nothing could erase the worry that creased Murtagh's heart, of Eragon and Saphira and their need…

Nothing could free him of the pain of knowing that his own mother had abandoned him, of knowing that he would die hated by the world, of knowing that Thorn would die as enslaved as he had been born…

Those were chains that not even time could break.

So Murtagh imagined locking those pains in a box, putting that box in a cell in Uru'baen's dungeon, and locking that too.

It was a temporary arrangement, but for Murtagh, it sufficed. It muted the wailing throbs enough that he could enjoy the simplicity of the moment- of flying with Thorn, of being together, just the two of them.

By mid-afternoon, Dras-Leona came into view, a black smudge on the horizon, growing, swelling, blossoming until Murtagh could see windows and people and the glint of metal in the sunlight; the blanket of red around it was the army.

His army, in some regards. He was second only to the King, and thus, could order anything…

Thorn flicked his long ear; he heard that thought. The possibility of chaos, if only they could find a way around their vows…

The Varden was miles away, another black smudge. It would be days before they reached the city, another day for war-machines, if they bothered, another day for a battle…

Murtagh knew why they were crawling across Alagaesia, their stampede almost at a standstill. They were waiting for Eragon, looking for him, praying he would come to save them.

Murtagh knew he wouldn't. He couldn't. Even if they had rescued him a week ago- the hypothetical, he knew they hadn't- he wouldn't be fit for a battle; nothing could have restored him physically from Karth and Furdor. Who knew what state his mind was in…

And that's when the sound distracted Murtagh.

It was a roar- not of a dragon, and not of fury, but of overjoyed confidence. It rose from the ground and met Murtagh and Thorn like hot air rising off of the Haradac: the army.

Of course they were glad to see the Red Rider; it meant more of them would live, that the battle would end quickly, that they could eat, drink, and be merry, because they wouldn't die the next day.

Murtagh wondered if they would be so happy to see him when he was a Shade.

But the sea of red was moving like a tidal wave, running all over, shouting, banging swords on shields, hooting, and otherwise, being obnoxious. No one had ever been so excited to see him; Murtagh reached out to see why they were so enthusiastic.

They were all drunk.

Down to the last man, the youngest boy, the oldest fighter, they were all stone-drunk. They couldn't have told a horse from a cow; what had happened to them? There wasn't an alcohol budget, unless they decided to forgo meat for a week… someone had to have given it to them- the Varden? Murtagh knew that at one point Angela had poisoned half the camp's food, at least, he suspected Angela, but beer? Even they couldn't afford that.

The people within the city were sober, and Murtagh couldn't decide who he liked better. The drunk men who cheered for him, or the sober ones, who glared and hustled their families indoors, away from the Red Ones. Thorn circled the city, trying to decide where to land, when Murtagh saw him.

He stood in the courtyard of the tallest tower- presumably his own. His plain features triggered Murtagh's memory, and the Son of None glared down at the general; his hand itched to rid the earth of his filth. And he dared wave! Murtagh shuddered. The Varden would be massacred, with him as the general. He would order every man, woman, and child to be killed.

Drakan, the newest general, was still watching him. Murtagh wondered if he was another of Galbatorix's sons- they all had the glint of insanity in their eyes. And that would explain how he had those five swords of the Riders- but why would the King give those to him? How had he gotten them, otherwise?

Thorn angled towards that courtyard, landing smoothly; in other words, nothing broke. The tower shuddered and a few windowpanes rattled, but that was nothing compared to when Thorn was a hatchling. He had crushed entire buildings on accident.

"Welcome, welcome!" Drakan smiled, his arms outstretched and a crude smile on his face. "Welcome to Dras Leona, Morzansson!"

Murtagh wanted to punch him in the face.

"Explain this." Murtagh snarled. His patience was already wearing thin.

"Explain what, General?" Drakan asked, mock innocence in his eyes.

Murtagh's eyes turned red, and one hand lingered around Zar'roc's hilt. "Are you blind? What – happened- to – the- men?" He enunciated each word, to get his point across. To be honest, each syllable slid through his teeth, dripping with threat.

"Why sir, they merely have drank too much. Anyone can see that."

Oh, so he wanted to challenge Murtagh? Two could play that game. Murtagh almost asked how, but realized the smart answer he would get and revised his question. "Where did they get so much beer?" He snapped. "Not from the army's money, I know that."

Drakan sighed. "The Generals Jerrus and Kennif arrived with their forces, and I paid them their dues. Two hundred fifty thousand crowns, to be specific. We could say… they're drunk on their new wealth. But they've been very generous as well, General. I can say the King's army is the happier, when compared to the Varden."

"Not until the hangover starts and they are in the midst of a battle." Murtagh hissed.

"Then would you like any, Lord Murtagh?"

The sudden memory of Morzan, drunk, flashed across Murtagh's mind. "Absolutely not. But Thorn will take a barrel."

Drakan raised his eyebrows and glanced at Thorn. "Of course, sir. But I have a request of you, actually; a question has plagued me of late, and I think you could answer it."

Murtagh didn't answer.

Drakan plowed on, undeterred. "I have a sword of a Rider named Tar'xuh, and

I wondered who it's Rider was."

A sword? "What color is it?"

"Brown."

Murtagh wanted to see those five swords that Drakan had boasted of… hadn't he promised one to General Kennif? A waste, in Murtagh's opinion. "I should be able to tell you if I see it."

Drakan studied Murtagh with crafty eyes; he probably suspected that Murtagh would try to steal one. It wasn't entirely false, either… "Very well. Follow me."

_ Watch your back._ Thorn warned Murtagh, and curled up in the middle of the road for a nap.

Drakan's tower was a labyrinth; it was worse than the castle in Uru'baen. There was no order to the hallways, no structure to the layout, and Murtagh promptly became lost. It if weren't for his guide, who chatted about how well the defense of the city was going, he could've wandered in there for years before finding a way out.

The treasure trove was in the perverbial dungeon of the tower; it was dark and muggy the further they clambered down the stairs, the stale air reeking of rotting wood and mothballs. The light from the torches around the walls cast faint, eerie shadows; it was as if even they could not burn any bright in the oppressive darkness.

Drakan led Murtagh into a locked chamber, dimly lit by the lanterns the dwarves used; it was too wide for the light to be very effective, but Drakan found a torch and lit braziers around a cage.

It was a prison cell; that was the first thing Murtagh found strange. Drakan pulled another key out of his pocket and unlocked that door, and Murtagh cringed as the door wailed, screeching worse than a banshee.

There were three bundles in that cage; Draken went to the bulkiest and unraveled the velvet, revealing five genuine swords of Riders- silver, green, gold, brown, and blue.

He picked the brown one out of the mix and presented it to Murtagh.

Tar'xuh. The symbol was engraved on the hilt, like on Zar'roc. It was the color of mud, thick and rich; he could have compared it to the color of hot chocolate. He flipped over the sword, studying the design upon the blade. Zar'roc did not have peculiar pattern, but this one had crosses all upon it, like whip lashes.

Murtagh ran through the list of Riders who had brown dragons- it was short.

_Thorn? _

_ Can I smell it? The swordsmith made colors match between blade and dragon; perhaps she imbued smell too. Then the eldunari would match. _

_ Do Zar'roc and I smell anything alike?_ Murtagh chuckled.

_Yes. You're always holding it. _

_ But your eldunari doesn't smell like Zar'roc. _

_ It might._ Thorn argued. _I wouldn't know. I've only seen it twice. _

_ True. _

Murtagh sighed. He drew Tar'xuh like he would Zar'roc, but it was too light, too short.

"Thorn would like to see this." Murtagh told Drakan, his eyes expectant, so the order behind his words was very apparent.

But the general balked. "Your worm wants to see the sword? Why on earth would it interest it?"

The punishment was instantaneous. Murtagh, as fast as an elf, punched Drakan in the nose, the crunch of bone and the gushing blood not satisfying his anger. The man stumbled back and would have fallen had not Murtagh caught him, only to wrestle him into a choke hold.

"A worm?" Murtagh snarled. "What else do you think he is? A lizard? A mere beast of the field?"

_ Let me have a word with him!_ Thorn roared, infuriated. _And everyone will know that dragons are not mindless, oversized reptiles! _

Murtagh kept Drakan in his hold, dragging him up the stairs and through the labyrinth; Murtagh plucked the way from the general's mind. They burst out the door when Murtagh burned them with a wall of fire- a very handy spell, when needing satisfaction for anger- and the people in the courtyard scattered.

Thorn glared at the doorway, his lips revealing razor-sharp teeth as thick as Murtagh's thigh. His hot breath, smelling strongly of meat, slapped the two generals, and after Murtagh dumped Drakan at Thorn's feet, he stepped away to watch the show. He didn't wipe away the smile that was growing across his face.

Drakan moved, pushing his hands underneath him to rise-

Thorn would have none of that. He pounced forward- Murtagh heard several things break when Thorn landed- and pinned Drakan beneath him, so his red eyes met Drakan's terrified ones.

Murtagh saw his intent just before Thorn opened his maw; he clamped his hands over his ears just before Thorn bellowed his outrage, his fury. His smoky roar rattled windows and shook buildings- it was loud enough that even the camp of drunk men fell silent.

_I am no lizard!_ Thorn roared, his mind choking Drakans, wrapping it in a fiery chain. _I am no mere beast! No worm! I am a dragon, and you will fear me!_

Thorn asked Murtagh his opinion, and Murtagh only nodded.

Thorn snapped Drakan up in his teeth- only his shirt, he wasn't going to eat him yet- and marched him through the city like that, right down the main road to the city gate. Murtagh ran beside him, not fighting the smile on his face. But Thorn wasn't going to stand in the gate to catch the city and camp's attention: he lept onto the wall, where all could see him.

He set Drakan down, but kept one paw over him, his talons forming an ivory cage around the general. With nothing to lose and no one to fear, Thorn threw his head back and sent a massive tongue of fire into the sky, so that everyone who hadn't already been paying him due attention would notice him.

_I am Thorn, son of Eridor!_ He roared, his mind screaming to each and every living being within a ten-mile radius of him. _I AM A DRAGON, AND YOU WILL FEAR ME! _

But Thorn was not satisfied- not even with several thousand eyes on him, not even with an entire city and half the army staring at him in awe and terror. He snapped Drakan in his maw once more, flicked his head back, and sent the general screaming through the air.

But humiliating Drakan was still not enough.

When the general was at his peak in his upward fall, gravity and momentum paused in their battle, Thorn took a deep breath, stood on his back legs, stretched his neck as far as he could-

The tongue of flame wrapped Drakan in its folds, red and orange and yellow snapping the general up like any hungry beast.

Not even his ashes fell back down.

A moment of absolute silence passed; then another, and another. Thorn gulped in deep droughts of air, still perched on the wall; glaring at the two-leggeds all around him.

And when the drunken camp started cheering, Thorn turned and roared at them, too. He was to be feared- feared and respected; not supported by a horde of mindless men.

_The swords._ Thorn snarled. _I declare that they are ours. And whatever else Drakan had. I defeated him; I now take his horde and make it our own._

_Of course._ Murtagh smiled.

Thorn's raging anger had subsided to a simmer; he snorted and started marching back up to the tower, Murtagh following.

Murtagh summoned the bundles from the cell, and when they appeared in the courtyard, he stuffed them in a saddlebag and they took off. The middle of a city was not a place to glory in newfound riches, as Thorn said.

_Tar'xuh belonged to Belion, rider of Miremel_. Thorn answered, nudging the sword. _What about the others?_

They had planted themselves in a wide clearing, chizeled out of the side of a remote hill. Dras Leona was not even the size of Murtagh's thumb from that distance.

Neither knew about Varimelde or Eldmir- gold and silver swords- but they both knew Tar-Surion from the stories; the green blade had belonged to Kedric the Bold, Rider of Ithgar.

And the fifth and final, a rich, deep shade of blue, was called Undbitr.

Murtagh knew all too well whose sword it had been; at one point, the King had specifically pointed it out among his treasures.

And Murtagh fingered Brom's sword, unsure of what to feel. Joy, knowing that the sword in his hands had led to Morzan's doom? Anger, that the same sword fueled Brom to seek Morzan, and because of it, he happened upon Selena? That he was holding the sword of his half-brother's father?

Thorn offered no help, because he couldn't sort through Murtagh's turmoil. His mind had drifted to the thought of Saphira, again, and she was another problem that they couldn't solve.

_ What about the other bundles?_ Thorn asked, snapping out of his reverie.

Murtagh reached for the second; the crackling of parchment ensued whenever he touched it. The velvet held twenty or so scrolls, ancient- the ink was fading and the paper yellowed; but Thorn was impatient for something for interesting.

Murtagh hoped he'd have a chance to read those tomes before he became Zar'roth.

He mindlessly pulled the velvet around the last, misshapen bundle-

His finger brushed the smooth surface underneath-

And suddenly he was twenty feet across the clearing, the wind knocked out of his system, his entire body aching from the force of the blast. Thorn stared at the glinting orange, peeking out of the velvet. His face betrayed his awe, rather than fury; Murtagh understood a moment later.

_ Thorn tells me you are not an egg-smasher, an oath-breaker, or a blood traitor._ A mellow voice echoed in his head- again, it brushed aside his walls like water cutting through rock. _And it appears the opposite, Son of None, Heir of the Vault. I apologize for shocking you._

_**Remember to check out the trailer, and that 15 reviews and I'll post sooner! You people are awesome! **  
_


	38. Chapter 38 Jura

**SimplySupreme and Draco Lucis:** Sorry- it's going to be a while until you hear about Halia! Late fourties, I bet. It's for the benefit of the story, though; I hope you're not disappointed!

**:** That was a mis-type on my part. I probably should've just stopped the sentence before "and it appears the opposite." **  
**

**ZeZe123: **I got the idea from HP 7- when Professor McGonagall bewitched all the statues and suits of armor to protect Hogwarts. :)

**TheLunyOne: **I refuse to believe that. It's too horrible- I mean, CP has made Murtagh's life miserable enough- why take away his only true friend? IT CAN'T BE TRUE!

**Kilana89**: ... Uh oh...

Anyway, I figure it would only be fair to give y'all a fair warning: I'm going to be gone for the next three weeks. Starting Saturday. No computer, no updates. Yeah- I think I'm going to die. I want to update before then, Friday-ish, but the chapter I'm working on is... difficult. And I don't really know why. But 'I will be strong, I will endure/ Laziness is not the cure/...' :)

**Either way, enjoy this chapter! (It's another Murtagh one- don't forget to review!)  
**

**Chapter 38: Jura**

Of course, Thorn didn't have any second thoughts about Murtagh getting blasted and electrocuted; he basked in the glory of their newest eldunari, and in his case, his newest friend.

Murtagh resented that blast, and leaned against Thorn's side, hovering on the dragons' conversation but paying more attention to the scrolls, which he was scanning. He wanted a map of the city... surely Drakan had a map among his most valuable possessions...

_And Glaedr did not have his eldunari?_ The other eldunari asked.

_We didn't look. My tail was gone, and Murtagh had fallen into mind blackness._ Thorn answered. Of course he had passed out- the King had possessed him.

There it was- a decent map. Murtagh looked closer; was it even of Dras Leona?

He had given Halia a map... a map of Uru'baen...

_No!_ Murtagh shouted at himself. _No, not now. Don't think of her right now._

But the damage was already done; memories of her danced before his eyes, mocking him, drawing him closer, deeper into the pain of knowing he would never see her again.

_No._ He ordered himself, and mustered what strength he had into locking her memory in its box.

But the box was determined to cause him as much distraction as possible- it was determined to haunt him, to fight him.

Swearing under his breath, Murtagh poured all his attention into the map spread before him; it was better than nothing, but hardly suitable, all the same. It was poorly made and had gaps; why had Drakan kept it among his valuables? It was worthless, in Murtagh's eyes. But one man's treasure, another's trash.

He pushed the inept map to the side, rifling once more through the dusty volumes and crackling scrolls.

Thorn was going on about Shruikan; Jura, however ancient she was, had known his great-great-great-grandsire.

Very old, then.

There was a history volume, but flipping through just several pages told Murtagh that most of it was lies- twisted facts and distorted quotes meant to show evil as good. But notes had been scribbled along the margins; at first, Murtagh didn't bother reading them, but the further he flipped through the tome, they multiplied, so that some pages didn't have a single yellow patch- all was covered in ink.

The handwriting was sloped and graceful, albeit jagged, and in the Anchient Language.

M. told me Klaer murdered Lord Hilk, not that Lord H. died after being thrown off his horse. One passage read.

K.G. said King Palancar was his ancestor, but this family tree shows no G. on it. Ran another.

B. said M. killed Narethin in a duel.

F.'s dragon went insane- that must be a natural cause, according to this passage.

Murtagh's eyes narrowed. Who had written these notes? Who was M, and K. G., and B., and F.? The person must have known them, to be so bold as to give them nicknames.

He flipped back to the page that was blackened with ink, and started reading.

An involuntary shudder spiked down his back. He started with the text; and numbness started at his fingertips, running beneath the words that suddenly had double meaning.

Morzan's Black Hand is a woman named Selena; his consort, he boasts. A lovely thing on the eyes, but no so lovely on the body. She gives a slap that stung for days, and Morzan is on the receiving end, most of the time. And if you get in her way, you wouldn't live to see another day.

A fearsome thing; the perfect woman for Morzan, though. She adores him, though some sort of tension is between them. I haven't devised why.

That's where the text ended- the even font was rather large- but the rest of the page was blackened by the slanted scribbles of the scholar. It ran along the margin, squeezed between the lines, and gave every indication of being hastily written.

On their tension- perhaps she was tired of being his puppet, his personal assassin, or he had grown tired of her, for whatever reason. A pregnancy is another option, though I can't see M. letting a child of his live very long. That, or he'd raise it to be its' mother- his servant.

But all of that doesn't matter, in light of the fiasco with the blue egg. Morzan set off to catch it again, only to die and fail in his last mission. Selena had gone missing, reappeared several weeks later, and joined her master. It is thought that she ran off to find M.'s murderer and have her revenge, but she never said. Pity, that such a talented thing should have been wasted. The King surely could have saved her, but she died in M.'s castle. Rumor was that a dark-haired, gray-eyed, four year old lived there… a child of the ill-fated couple? Must investigate.

Murtagh's fingers froze over the last, almost-illegible line of notes. That section was written… fifteen years ago? Fourteen? But by who?

He turned the book over to study the leather cover- it gave no indication of an author.

Panic started rising in his heart, like bile- sharp and disgusting- but Murtagh had to know! He had too! Who had written this? Who had suspected his existence? Someone who had been there, someone in the court-

Not the King- inspiration slapped Murtagh's mind; K.G. Had to be King Galbatorix, M could be Morzan, B... he skipped B after a moment of uncertainty, he could figure that one out later... F... F...

They had to be Dragon Riders-

Brom.

Formona.

Klaer had been one of the Forsworn, as well as Lord Hilk and Narethin... but who was the author?

Murtagh bit back the curses slipping through his gritted teeth- he needed a sign, anything!, of who had scribbled down such a history-

He felt like he had been punched when his eyes landed on a certain scrawl; the wind was knocked out of him, and for one frozen moment, he was numb, unfeeling, stunned.

His fingers almost touched the name on the title page-almost- but he recoiled, like the black ink was poison.

We are Durza.

It was like the King's threat trailed him wherever he went- was he never to have a moments peace? What a stupid, idiotic, worthless question. He was Morzan's son- of course he would never have that restless thing called peace.

Gingerly, he picked through the rest of the book- oh gods, there was his name, bright as day. Durza even recounted the... adventure in Gil'ead.

It was not a journal, or (gods forbid!) a diary. It was a history, all told from Durza's perspective. It was his judgement on events both before and during his time.

_Self-absorbed bastard._ Murtagh snarled. A few other choice names fell from his lips, and suddenly restless, Murtagh started pacing the little hill. Thorn's eyes were fixed on the glowing eldunari- Jura. He gave Murtagh a passing glance and sighed as his Rider trampled the grass.

_Has a temper, doesn't he?_ Jura mused.

Murtagh snarled at her- who cared if she was a dragon?

Thorn didn't say anything, but his pain seeped through their connection- their agony met and merged, swelling as they stared into each other's souls...

_Thorn, pay attention._ Jura interrupted, ignoring Murtagh. _What of Vroengarg? What has Galbatorix done to it? _

_ I don't know._ Thorn sighed._ I've never been there, and the last time Shruikan was, he was barely fifteen months old. It's probably a crumbling castle right now. _

Jura keened a low wail- a silent howl, a groan. _Would your vows restrain you from visiting it? _

Thorn and Murtagh exchanged a calculating glance.

_Why does it matter?_ Murtagh asked. _Our tasks will always come first. _

_ But from what I've heard, your King_- she spat out the word- _cares greatly about his power. _

_ …so? _Thorn asked.

_Don't be so daft, hatchling!_ Jura cried. _Everyone and everything great had passed through the halls of Vroengarg! It was the center of learning in my day- Illyria was nothing more than a patch of trees then. It held nought a candle to Vroengarg's flame. The two-legged's leaf-and-bark books were housed in rooms bigger than Bid'daum, may his soul be at rest, and our kind's hearts laid in a vault that reached for leagues under the very earth. It was the heart of the Rider's power; it was the heat of the dragon's fire. The Master of Vroengarg was the Master of the Riders, and in some ways, the Master of All. _

_ Vroengarg, to the Riders, was the highest symbol of power. If this Galbatorix has the hearts that were kept there, I cannot imagine a greater danger and tragedy. But I've heard murmurs that you, two-legged, are the Heir to the Vault- you must go to Vroengarg and save what hearts you can! Surely your Lord cannot have taken all of them- if it is as you said, and Shruikan has been kept in Uru'baen, perhaps there are some hearts that are still free-_

_ Do not get your hopes high._ Murtagh sighed. _The King has had plenty of time to shuttle eldunari from Vroengarg to Uru'baen; he knows no limits and has great skill in manipulating others. _

_ But no power is infinite. _Jura argued. _Not even the hundreds of thousands of hearts that yet exist in Alagaesia combined creates an infinite source of energy and wisdom, and everything that is not infinite __**can**__ be destroyed. I feel your hopelessness- why do you give up so easily? Why do you believe all is lost? And why in the heavens above has Bid'daum chosen you to be the Heir?_

Murtagh and Thorn both froze- Thorn in shock, Murtagh in wonder. Where could he even begin with his questions? A thousand had sprung from Jura's words!

_Bid'daum chose me?_ _Bid'daum?_ Murtagh asked. _Is he the one whose voice I hear? _

_ Yes, silly two-legged. Who else among the dragons would have the authority to decide the Keeper of the Vault? A wild dragon? Surely not. Bid'daum was the Lord of the Riders, the Greatest of the Dragons; why do you even bother asking? Of course Bid'daum did- any other would be perposterous. _

_ But how can you hear him- how can you communicate with him, when your eldunari's are hundreds of leagues apart? _

Jura chuckled. _The earth says many things, if you are patient enough to listen to it. When you have had hundreds of years of resting in silence, you learn to hear the slightest sigh. _

_ I will make a pact with you- I know you have many questions. You have the mind of a scholar- a rather life-weary one, but a student all the same. _

_ If you will go to Vroengarg and search every nook and shadow for the hearts of my kind, I will answer all your questions, as much as I know. And if my answer falls short, I will seek one from my brethren. _

_ But the King has our true names; we've made vows- _

_ You are to be the Keeper of the Vault!_ Jura cried. _Take up your task and find those who need you! We don't care if your two-legged King takes us into his horde- we are stronger as one! We will help you, if you will help us!_

The same line, over and over.

Murtagh looked across the hills at Dras-Leona. He could feel the humming, thriving force of life there; the panic of battle, the confidence of the drunk, the pain of the wounded, the hope of the bold.

Thorn nudged his mind- they both heard that thought.

They did not have any vows preventing them from leaving, since they were only required to be at the battle, and that wasn't for several days…

And Murtagh only had a week to live…

He looked towards that damned rock, Helgrind; it was across Leona Lake, an ominous purple mass on the horizon. Had that been where Halia was tortured? He shuddered at the thought and quickly banished it- he couldn't be distracted. But he didn't have to fear for her, if he angered the King…

And Eragon was in there, alone, dying, helpless…

A mental blast knocked Murtagh off of his feet- he hadn't been prepared for the wall to crash into him, overwhelming his defenses, surrounding his mind, threatening to smother him with its weight. It was like a mountain had collapsed on him, like the King was breaking into his mind-

He didn't recognize the voice, or understand how it was even possible, but the message was the same:

_ MURTAGH, THORN! HELP US, AND WE WILL HELP YOU!_

_ Murtagh, Thorn! Help us, and we will help you!_

_ Murtagh, Thorn! Help us, and we will help you!_

_ Murtagh, Thorn! Help us, and we will help you! _

After that, there wasn't really much of a decision left to be made.


	39. Chapter 39 The Haunted Haven

If it weren't for the fact that my laptop died and I lost 700 words, I'd posted this earlier. But here it is- I'm rather fond of this chapter. I hope you'll like it as much as I do! (BY THE WAY, who went to the Harry Potter premiere? WASN'T IT AWESOME?)

**Mango High- **I WILL finish this story. Don't worry.

Oh, and sorry about the misspellings. I'm confused right now, and I don't have time to edit this chapter for spellings.**  
**

**I guess this is goodbye for a little while... we'll see. **BUT I WILL RETURN! (Leave me some reviews, would ya?) **  
**

**Chapter 39: The Haunted Haven **

Murtagh arranged for Generals Kennif and Jerrus to manage Dras-Leona; he left detailed instructions on the defences and positions, and threatened that they do them on pain of death.

He figured that would get his message across, once they recovered from the hangover.

He locked Drakan's valuables back in the dungeons with similar spells that he used for his chamber door, but after that, he and Thorn were free.

As free as they ever would be.

From Dras-Leona they flew over the Spine- the King would have skinned them alive, if he had been there- to Kuasta, to Teirm, to Narda, and across the sea to Doru Araeba. The whole journey took about three days with the help of a strong northern draft.

Jura talked the whole way; Murtagh swore that he had never heard anyone talk so much for so long, but then again, she had been kept in isolation for who-knows-how-long. But she did fall silent as they were crossing the Spine- listening, she told them- but if she heard anything, she did not say.

Thorn had never been so elated in his life; his joy at defying the King and flying towards the place where his ancestors had walked gushed over Murtagh like water over a fall, unstoppable. Murtagh wasn't going to let his doubts spoil the mood, but his dread of the King's fury dampened his personal enjoyment.

If the King found out while they were still away…

Murtagh shielded that thought from Thorn, who didn't notice. He and Jura were trying to see if they were related at all- the hundreds of years between them didn't matter.

And for the first time since she had left, Murtagh let himself think of Halia.

He let himself wonder where she was, if she was hungry or tired or weak or lonely. If Angela and Kidasku were as strange a pairing as the witch and Solembum. If they were going to the elves or the Varden. He hoped not the latter; it was obvious they were weak, and the likelihood of them winning Dras-Leona was miniscule, if not impossible.

He wondered if she missed him; if she was as haunted by his face as he was by hers-

But he banished that thought; he shoved such thoughts away, because they were as possible as a dragon breathing ice, and the moon bursting into flame. Someone as innocent as her, falling for a monster like him? A ridiculous idea.

But that didn't stop him from wondering.

We've never been this far west before. Thorn commented as they passed over Narda.

The King doesn't want another army disappearing in the Spine again. Murtagh reminded him. And the Varden hasn't attacked any of the cities here.

Of all of Alagaesia's history, and Galbatorix's, Murtagh and Thorn still did not know what happened to that army. Once, a general suggested that they surprise the Varden by coming around through the Spine and pinning them. The King offered his opinion by decapitating the man.

It seemed the only ones who knew what happened were the soldiers themselves. Too bad all of them were dead.

But Thorn and Murtagh met no opposition and saw nothing but a few animals. Most of them ended up in Thorn's belly; the others he deemed to small for a snack.

And still, Jura didn't stop talking. Most of her conversation was directed at Thorn, who didn't mind at all; Murtagh was content to simply enjoy the cool drafts and the sight of the endless ocean, glittering and dancing in the sunlight.

How far away from Uru'baen was she? Was she cold at night? Had he packed enough provisions for her? Would she be shunned when she returned, because she had been exploited? No- no. He denied that possibility. She would be hailed as a hero for returning alive. She deserved nothing less.

How would she tell her story? Would she say anything at all? Would anyone be able to help restore her memory? Would she meet what's-his-name again? The one who deserted her? Would she remember him at all?

Would she fall for him again? Would he break her heart? Murtagh found himself strangely infuriated at the thought; only someone with a soul of ice would hurt her.

_Look._ Thorn interrupted him. _Do you see it?_

Murtagh peered through the misty gray clouds around them, trying to make out whatever Thorn saw. _No._

Thorn pressed his mind upon Murtagh's, and the Rider yeilded; he blinked, and found himself looking through Thorn's eyes, where everything took a strange red hue. The water below them, vast and typically blue, was closer to burgundy, and the sky around them was a darker blue than normally. The ground seemed distorted, the green replaced by a murky _, like the earth had thrown on a cloak to hide itself from Murtagh.

But the black smudge on the horizon, too far away for Murtagh's eyes to see, kept its brooding color.

_ Is that a tower?_ Thorn asked. _Or a strange hill?_

Both, it turned out. The portion of the castle they could see was built into a mountain ridge, and as they flew around it, they pointed out broken windows and crumbling walls to each other. Jura directed Thorn over it; she said that ridge was only the southern wing of Doru Araeba. But neither was really paying attention; Thorn had just found a cave bearing signs of life. He roared, and a flock of birds burst from the dark mouth of the mountain.

The change was sudden- one moment they had been hovering mere yards over towers and trees, the next, they hung thousands of feet from the ground. The entire ridge had fallen away, revealing a magnificent bay and port town. Though the dock had rotted out long ago, the granite-paved road still led from the white-sand beach to the mountain, weaving through buildings and up the island like ivy crawling up a wall, splitting and branching off.

The buildings were white- if it had been a sunnier day, Murtagh and Thorn would have been blinded. Upon closer inspection, Murtagh realized that they were built right out of the mountain, much like Farthen Dur. The time and effort required to complete such structures astounded him- but then again, this had been the haven of the Riders. Time and energy hadn't really been an issue.

Thorn angled his wings towards the bay, dropping down so they were inside the bowl, rather than perched on the rim. Murtagh caught sight of a rather massive fountain in a clearing- perhaps it had been a marketplace or forum- and Thorn headed towards it, as interested in the statue of the dragon as Murtagh was in the magic that powered it.

That's when they saw the first body.

Thorn noticed it first; the white bones, crumpled in a heap by the fountain. A dragons, undoubtedly. It was on its back, its neck twisted at an awkward angle, its ribs forming a hollow dome.

They never ended up landing; after finding that first corpse, they realized the remains of the King's victories were everywhere. Dragons hung out of buildings that at first sight appeared to have caved in, when really they had been smashed on impact; Murtagh shuddered at the sight of a broken human body, laying faithfully beside a dragon that had broken nearly every bone in its body.

Thorn's lament started as a whine, a trickling pity for that first body. But as the haunted forms of the dead grew more and more numerous, his pain morphed into a staggering flood of agony- so many dead! So many lost! Murtagh found himself gasping as Thorn's overwhelming emotions washed over him- and then the first sizzling tear slipped down Thorn's snout and splattered on a building far below them.

Jura could only see through his eyes; she, however, did not weep over her kind's loss. Fury, searing like fire, and vengence, the slow smoulder of hate, throbbed in her eldunari to the point where Murtagh refused to touch it. Both were too horrified to stay there; she directed him over the other edge of the bowl and into a deserted hollow several leagues away from the castle.

Thorn curled up in the sand and cried himself to sleep, too exhausted- physically and emotionally- to carry on any longer.

Murtagh comforted him until sleep took his dragon in its calming arms; then he set out to do what Thorn could not.

He faced the crumbling castle.

Castle or city, he couldn't decide, but he tramped over the ridge and skidded down its' slope until he reached a tower and scrambled in through a broken window. He couldn't decide which was worse: walking through streets filled with the dead, or down black, labyrinthine corridors that hadn't been used for a hundred years.

It was the obvious signs of life that made the interior more haunting than anything Murtagh had ever seen- it was a hundred, no, a thousand times worse than Morzan's castle. That fortress had been relatively emptied, sheets draped over the furniture, the valuables put into safe-keeping; only servants lived there.

Only memories lived in Doru Araeba.

Murtagh passed one room where dinner settings still laid on a table, patiently waiting for the next meal; another room had the ashes of a fire that had burned out long ago scattered across the carpeted floor- the window had broke, and the breeze played with the ratty curtains like some housewife had just thrown them open to let in the ocean air.

In a musty study, dried ink laid hardened in a jar, a quill just beside it, the parchment half-filled, the last sentence incompleted. The last writer had left in a hurry- his chair had been overturned- but his supplies still waited for his return.

A kitchen had been evacuated while a turkey was roasting; the meat was gone, but the skeleton still hung over a spit, and a pot with lukewarm water and vegetables still stood beside it. The lid was beside it, never to be used again.

The story was the same wherever Murtagh went; in a bedroom, the massive four-poster was unkept, the sheets tangled together; a wash room still had a tub filled with water, and a soap bar waited to be used next to a towel-

Murtagh started running-

Music was scattered across a room filled with rotting instruments-

His footfalls echoed on and on in the unending corridors-

A body was crumpled outside an armory, three arrows pinning it to the doorframe-

Did the place never end?

The shift was almost immediate. Murtagh tore down a door in his rising need to be released from the tower's haunted corridors-

And he found himself on a massive balcony facing the bay and the setting sun. The sprawling castle glinted brighter than before in the light, and Murtagh had never been so happy to be outside in his life-

Until he realized that blood, dried and blackened from time, stained the balcony. So much of it! Murtagh's stomach clenched as he imagined how it must have poured over the ledge- he banished the thought for the sake of his lunch.

Curiosity drove him to turn around, to see who had such a miserable death. The entire wall was painted in the liquid of life- tipping his head back, Murtagh saw the form of a small-ish dragon hanging three stories above him.

From the oldest to the youngest, all had perished. All had fallen under the King's heavy hand, all had failed to defeat Galbatorix's black sword and twisted mind.

And he was the latest to suffer the same fate, albeit reversed- living death.

Was he more like the Forsworn, or those who had fought and died? It was an interesting question, one that Murtagh had never really thought about. He was a Forsworn in that he did the King's dirty work, but like a True Rider through his rebellion.

But in the end, he realized, it didn't really matter. All the world saw him as the newest Forsworn, and the King saw him as a mixture- how had Kidasku put it? His most dangerous weapon? Murtagh couldn't remember the wording. In his heart he was a True Rider, but in his actions he was a Forsworn.

_Hatchling!_ Came Jura's voice, pounding on the walls of his mind. _Have you found any hearts? _

Oh- that. Murtagh jolted out of his thoughts, giving the small, dead dragon one last look. He was supposed to be looking for the eldunari, though he doubted the King had left any on Vroengarg.

He turned back towards the ocean, taking a deep breath of the clean, fresh air, listening to the pounding of the waves on the rocks and the gentle murmur of it on sand. He listened to the gulls, to the wordless song of the wind.

And he did what he hated most- he opened his mind to his surroundings, taking a deep breath to stave off paranoia.

At first, nothing. Then came insects, small and determined, mere dots that did not register Murtagh's mental presence. Mice and rats arrived, scurrying around, elated to find the smallest morsel of anything edible; birds, too, wheeling and squacking and arguing with each other. A herd of deer grazed just over the ridge, wary of the wolves that prowled nearby. Murtagh found a bear in one of the abandoned caves, and a cluster of spirits hovered about two miles away from him, content and cheerful about their mere existence.

For the place that had once been the haven of the Riders, there was not the touch of a single dragon's mind on the island.

It was as lonely as Murtagh had suspected, as empty as a dead soldier.

Loneliness, cold and aching, crept through Murtagh like winter stealing the warm sunlight. He was truly alone- granted, he had Thorn, but they were alone. It was one thing to be free and alone- Eragon and Saphira at least had friends- but to be a captive and alone? They would never know that kind of pain, no matter what tortures they had endured and what agonies they had felt.

To live, to serve.

To die, to be free.

Even the ants- so small, so determined!- were more free than he. He was one of the most powerful people in the world, and one of the most heavily chained.

_We eldunari are chained too_. Jura reminded him, barging into his mind. He cringed at her contact, struggling to replace his mental defenses. _Remember our deal! Help us, and we will help you. Keep looking. _

_ Why don't you look?_ Murtagh snapped.

_If you are the Heir, they will hear you, even those who have retreated so far into themselves that they know nothing but darkness. I could roar as long and as hard as I could, but they would not hear me. They will answer to the Heir and to Bid'daum- none other. _

Murtagh gritted his teeth, taking a steadying breath, struggling to drive away the creeping doubts that threatened to swallow him.

_Dragons!_ He cried, surprised to see the flames of light flicker and dim at his call, the echo rebounding from mind to mind. _Hearts! Do any of the dragonkind still live on Vroengarg?_

It was like he had thrown a pebble into a dark cave; he could hear the echoes of the stone's tumble, his own cry bouncing from mind to mind. And just as the pebble's echoes faded, so did his cry. It was lost to the overwhelming darkness of emptiness.

His mind strained to hear anything, to feel any shift, to sense any change, to find anything that resembled movement or life. Jura's excitement was practically tangible- Murtagh tried to ignore it.

Nothing.

Murtagh held his breath.

Nothing.

Jura's patience wavered.

Nothing.

That was the answer, then: it was as Murtagh had suspected. The King had all of the eldunari; he'd be furious when he realized that had come so far and returned empty-handed.

Perhaps they could lie and say that they were seeking to build his power by finding eldunari; it'd be a partial truth, one that the King wouldn't believe unless he was stone-drunk or extremely happy, neither of which happened often. They could leave out the power part and focus on the eldunari… but would the King take that as a threat, that they went of their own accord and sought that which supported Galbatorix? '

Murtagh wished Thorn was awake, but he didn't want to disturb him.

Perhaps they could say they wanted one last history lesson; what place would be better than the famous haven of the Riders? Shruikan wouldn't mind if they roped him into it- they could say that he sent them there, for old times sake. Murtagh could make it true if he returned with a pile of scrolls and books, and perhaps an egg shell or two… and he was a scholar…

They could remind the King that they didn't know that he had all the hearts, that Vroengarg was empty. No, no- that would be detrimental to their health. Putting any blame on the King was like holding a torch next to a block of ice- provoking. It'd only hasten his Shadehood…

They could remind him that they set Dras-Leona in order; they had fulfilled their duty. Obviously, the battle was days- perhaps even a week- away, and victory was inevitable because Eragon and Saphira were nowhere to be seen-

No, no. He couldn't think of them around the King; he couldn't speak their names, for fear of igniting a royal tantrum. He couldn't risk revealing everything about them, where they were, who their captors were- he couldn't, for fear that they would die. Once the King was through with them, yes, he was certain that they would die.

But perhaps they could argue-

What was that?

Murtagh paused, trying to decide whether or not he had heard something from his ears or from his mind.

Was that-?

An indistinguishable whisper, soft as the wind, swept through his mind. He couldn't make out any words, nor could he decide if it was real or not.

That whisper faded, the faint echoes vanishing into the nothing. But the emptiness that persued it seemed as proof to Murtagh that it had been real, not the makings of his fatigued mind.

The pebble had come to a standstill, balanced against another stone. The uneven weight pushed both rocks down, so the echoes were louder than before, the whispers returned, stronger than before-

Those two pebbles, those two voices, disturbed other rocks and other souls-

The whispers grew into audible words, the words turned into shouts-

The pebbles pushed rocks into the tumble, the rocks pulled boulders into the fray-

Murtagh fell to his knees, hands clamped over his ears, trying in vain to block out the choas in his head-

_The Heir has called us!_ The Voices cried, more and more lights bursting into existence in Murtagh's mind- _The Heir summons us! Awake, awake!_

The shouts became a battlecry, the roar of a thousand dragons-

The pebbles, rocks, boulders slid together in one massive avalanche-

Murtagh tried to hide, desperate for an escape, but the darkness had been overwhelmed by the white-hot lights, so shadows were driven away and all around was the brightness-

_The Heir has returned! _The eldunari cried,_ The time of darkness has passed! Flames, Foes, Fires, Fly, Fly! _


	40. Chapter 40 The Intangible Things

**Hullo! I'm back! **

**I can't make up my mind about this chapter- whether I like it or not, that is. Hmm. The last one, though... that's on my list of favorites. Anyway, I've been spending a lot of time writing one of my original stories, (THE SILVER KNIGHT), and... it might be a week (or two...) before I update again. I mean, I've already written the next chapter, but I hate it. I'm sorry. I hate it. **

**Anyway, I'm glad to be back, and I will try to update within the week! **

**Chapter 40: The Intangible Things **

Murtagh had known the sound of twenty thousand soldiers preparing for battle; he had heard the cocofany of sounds within a military camp, he had clamped his hands over his ears at the roar of an angry dragon.

But this sound, this noise- it was different.

Put all of the sounds he had ever heard into one scene, one moment- then multiply by a million.

Close enough.

Some- most- of the eldunari rejoiced, their cries a stark contrast to the ones who wailed, who still had not recovered from the loss of their bodies and their Riders. Those were the ones who had mined deep into the darkness, who were as blinded by the light as Murtagh, who screamed in agony to be returning, if partially, to the world that had cheated them of life.

Each mind had a different feeling, a different taste: the young and the old, the wise and the fools, the blood-thirsty and the patient. And all kinds were bearing upon Murtagh, beating him down, pounding on the walls of his mind.

He had known the feeling of frailty, of weakness; this shed new light on the experience, for never in his life had Murtagh been so defenseless, so helpless-

The eldunari brushed his walls aside like swords cutting through butter, ignoring his defiant and shocked cries. They wanted to meet the Heir, to bask in his presence, to glory in their fresh beginning. Each craved answers: who was he? Why had he come? What did he want them to do? Who was the Enemy? How many hearts did he have? How many dragons? How many magicians? How many were fit for immediate battle? How many could they kill- how many would they kill? What was the Enemy's numbers?

It was too much, but the more Murtagh tried pulling away, the more they grappled with his mind, demanding the facts that they had wondered for so long.

But Murtagh had questions too, all of which were ignored: why hadn't he seen them before? Who were they? Who were their Riders? Why was he the Heir? What was he supposed to do? How could he possibly hide them from the King? What did they want to do?

And their deal- Jura had promised to answer all of his questions if he sought out the horde of hearts in Vroengard-

But her mind was lost in the sea of hearts, and Murtagh could not find it.

Thorn, the moment the hearts had appeared, had awoken, and he basked in the glory of his own kind, of the memories and the knowledge and the experience that he had craved, of the company of those still brimming with energy and a strange sort of life-

Even his mind became nothing more than a pinprick in Murtagh's consciousness; Murtagh could touch him, but not get an answer of anything.

_SILENCE! _

The roar brimmed with authority, with an intangible aura of power, and all of the hundreds of thousands of minds inside Murtagh's fell silent. Murtagh had never been so grateful for quiet in his life, even if he still felt the murmur of a thousand thoughts and the thum of a thousand hearts.

_Now, Heir._ The tone changed; the dragon was amused by Murtagh's boiling mind. _What do you have to say? Why did you summon us?_

Which question could he possibly start with? Thorn answered that question in a single heartbeat.

_Are you slaves to Galbatorix? _

There was a pregnant pause-

It was as if each heart exploded at once- outrage and fury burned the brightest. Shock, that he was still ruling- they seemed to have forgotten all senses of time- and fear. Fear that he would come for them too; he certainly knew that they were there… didn't he?

No one knew for certain.

Murtagh explained to them all that had transpired since the Rider's fall; as much as he knew, answering all their questions. He skipped his heritage; no need to stun them with the fact that their Heir was the son of their murderer.

They, as Jura had promised, began answering some of his own questions. The apparent leader was Havo, Bid'daum's first mate; she shared Murtagh's primary concerns, like how to hide them, and how to change his true name.

She echoed Eragon's words: he had to change his character.

Shielding his doubts from them, Murtagh assured them that he was trying his hardest; but if Halia hadn't changed his name, the selfless acts of healing and letting her hadn't affected him…

Thorn told him to be optimistic, but neither hid from the other their silent fears of what would happen if the King caught them again.

In number, there were some two thousand hearts, all willing to serve Murtagh.

But they had conditions- they were dragons, after all.

The first one: he must accept his inevitable duty as the Heir and acknowledge his 'official' title as the Keeper of the Vault.

Second: he must use their power to defeat Galbatorix.

Thirdly: if he should fail, he was to smash every last heart.

He balked at the thought- the loss of so much widom, so many memories, so much experience! But they were firm- they refused to fall into the Traitor's hands, to be forced to preserve his authority.

Fouthly, or the second part of the third condition: when he claimed victory, all those that wanted to be smashed would be, without question. To both Murtagh and Thorn the number was staggering- over half wanted to be free from the confines of their hearts.

But they were dragons- they were hope, and Murtagh ached for want to help them.

But he couldn't- he made that very clear. He couldn't because the King had his true name, and one slip meant that they all were doomed. Keeping Eragon and Saphira's secret was harrowing enough- bearing two thousand more? Impossible.

But they were dragons. They were willing to withstand the risks.

Murtagh, though, couldn't convince himself to accept their qualifications. He was too weak; he was everything everyone hated, he was-

_Perfect for the task._ Havo chuckled. _You understand the risks of power; you're immune to it, because you know how it corrupts. Bid'daum chose you because he has felt you in all your worst states, though you never realized it. He knew how Galbatorix's smooth words first ensnared you when you pledged your allegiance to him; he also recognized the shift, when you first saw the Traitor in his fury. Then when you returned, much later, beaten and bruised and tortured and still very much alive, and more defiant than ever, after the Battle at the dwarven-dell. Thorn's hatching, the theft of your true name, the times you've returned battle weary and felt Galbatorix's fury on your skin-scales and in your mind, the times he has hurt you for no reason at all- Bid'daum has touched on your progression from the eager boy to the hardened man that you are. _

_ He assured us that you will fight your task- he has mentioned two chief arguments that will flit within your head, one of which I'm sure is your captivity. But you cannot escape the inevitable, two-legged, bright hand hatchling; for without us, you have no hope of overpowering the Traitor, and no chance to redeem yourself in the world's eyes_

_I've given up all hope of forgiveness. _

_The dragons have accepted you. _Hava reminded him_._ _That's already one race. _

It was too much- all of it. The eldunari, the 'inevitable', his Shadehood, Eragon and Saphira's capture… Murtagh couldn't handle it all. His mind reeling, he wrenched himself from the eldunari's presence- it took some tugging- and came to himself in blissful solitude. He even pressed Thorn out in his need for silence.

Silence.

He still stood on that scarlet-painted balcony, but everything had changed in a moment's time.

Hope.

Could he even call it that? Was this- the eldunari's loyalty, their promise of aid- hope? That thing Murtagh had never truly had?

Hope…?

He needed to be away from the decaying castle, away from the bodies of the fallen, away from the ghosts that haunted Doru Araeba. Scrambling back up the way he had come, he hiked across the mountain ridge, slid down its backside, and ended up on a white beach.

And in the sudden calm, in the moments where his head cleared and his mind refocused, he realized a strange thing.

He had never seen the ocean before.

Thorn had pointed it out first- that they had never been past the Spine, in terms of how far west they were. And he had been too proccupied coming over to notice how wide the ocean was, how vast, how soothing and how… peaceful.

His boots sunk into the white sand, and he realized that this sand was different from the sand in the Haradac- but it was still the same substance… He hopped on one foot and tore off his right boot and sock, letting his foot feel the sand, discover it…

The sand in the desert was gritty, annoying, got everywhere and couldn't be avoided. This sand was totally different- soft and gentle. Leaving his boots behind him, Murtagh headed across the beach, still in awe of the newfound ground, and passed from dry sand to wet, from the dry to the wet, and from there, into the waves.

The water was pleasantly warm, but not hot; Murtagh stood still and watched as the waves ate away the sand at his feet and replaced it with more. A few clams appeared on his sinking feet, small, no bigger than his pinky nail, burrowing into the wet turf.

He took a deep breath, letting the air invigourate his system. The salty smell was fresh and clean- not like the sky at high altitudes, but more… earthy, wetter even. He liked it.

And then there was the sound. Of waves sliding over the beach and slinking back again, defeated by the tide; of gulls crying overhead, looking for a meal; of the wind tossing the sea to and fro, dancing with it.

Peace.

In Murtagh's chaotic life, here was one thing he had never truly understood.

Peace.

And for that minute, his worries slipped away, his fears were forgotten, his agonies and memories of cruel, bitter fate evaporated, and his churning heart paused to admire the simplicity of nature.

This was the thing called peace.

And taking another breath, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips, Murtagh decided one thing: if he and Thorn ever escaped, rather than living in a god-forsaken hole somewhere… They would go here. To Vroengard. They would clean up the castle, bury the dead, restore the haven of the Riders…

And they would be happy.


	41. Chapter 41 Hope

I know, I know, I know- it's a short chapter. Fine. The shortest chapter. Ever. I'm sorry.

But you know what? I think I'm gonna send this to CP, somehow. Maybe I'll be able to meet him during the book tour, or get an address, or something. I'm gonna do that. His opinion would be... rather interesting. I wonder if my Murtagh is anything like the Murtagh he created and imagined... perhaps I'll find out. :)

I know this chapter is a bit... blah. But don't worry- things start heating up next chapter, and it just gets hotter and hotter and hotter from there. We're on the last leg, people!

**Owltalon: **You want to read it? Seriously? I've posted part of the first chapter on my blog, rzhungryverbivore. blogspot. com, but otherwise, I'm the only one who has laid eyes on it. **  
**

**SimplySupreme:** I wrote that part about oceans because it was my first day at the beach, and I was like, 'hey, it's Murtagh's first day too!' ;)

**SO, here you go!  
**

**Chapter 41: Hope**

The beach helped clear Murtagh's muddled mind; it softened his senses, in some inexplicable way, and soothed his weary soul with a gentleness of a mother.

That was strange, in some ways, because Murtagh didn't have many memories of Selena.

But when Thorn's playful, wonderful, curious, cautious, calming mind seeped into Murtagh's, that ended his Rider's struggles.

_I'll try, Thorn. We can try. Perhaps… _

_ Perhaps. _Thorn wordlessly understood Murtagh's brooding hopes and expectaions, his own echoing and merging with his Rider's.

They had so many goals, so many wishes… to save Eragon and Saphira, to help Shruikan escape, to kill Karth and Furdor, to free themselves, to kill the King…

And to die.

For to kill the King, they would have to die. That was the King's ultimate safeguard; that whoever would be the his conquerer would share in his fate.

But it was also a sign, one Murtagh had just realized: it meant the King did have a weakness- that somewhere in his black, twisted soul, he did fear for his survival, that he did worry about the war, that he did have doubts…

Kidasku's words from so long ago echoed in Murtagh's head, a memory he had almost forgotten…

_"You're his biggest weakness, his strongest card- the opposites in one. And he hates you for it." _

And hope was standing before him, waiting with open arms. The eldunari offered him… well, they offered him everything he had dreamed of. Strength to stand against, and even defeat, the King. Forgiveness. The chance to prove himself to the rest of the world.

And freedom.

They offered him that unmistakable, untouchable thing that he had craved for so long. And though the risks were massive, and the outcome if he failed completely destructive…

But he was willing to die to succeed.

And death, in essence, was victory, because with either outcome, he would be free.

So, in the end, and by some twisted logic, there really was no risk.

Strange.

Strange but wonderful and destructive.

And Murtagh noted the strangeness of the entire situation- how long had it been since he had made a single decision based on nothing more than logic and reason? He had always had emotion behind it, whether annihilating fury or aching pity.

He had made the single most important decision in his life- to join with the eldunari- with his own head. Of course there had been vengence involved, and that groaning lust for freedom, and that desperate need for forgiveness, but mostly, it had been logic.

And fear, too- he couldn't ignore fear. It was always the same- fear of failing, fear of the King, fear of the world, and even the fear of hope. Thorn understood that fear, though he did not know it quite as strongly; Murtagh's fear of hoping, in case there was no possibility of escape.

But here, standing before him with arms open wide, was Hope.

He liked it, too.

And for the first time in his life he could ignore the fear, and know nothing but hope. It was like something small, warm, and undoubtedly strong hummed in his chest, like his heart, but- but it could not be taken away from him, and he could not ignore it, and he could not explain it.

He didn't even feel the fissure in his mind crack down his forehead, for the pain was washed out by that thrumming thing called Hope.


	42. Chapter 42 New Orders

**I'm back! I'm so happy! I hadn't been planning this rather large gap at all, but you know what? I underestimated school. I have to write a thesis this semester... and it bites. But I had time to write this weekend, and I'm so happy! **

**I hate this chapter. I loathe it with every fiber of my body. So you know what? You lucky ducks, you get a double update, 'cause I like the next chapter! And the chapter after that (I'm halfway done-ish)! And the chapter after that! And after that! And you know why I like all those unwritten chapters? BECAUSE THEIR GONNA BE FRICKIN' AWESOME. And why is that? BECAUSE EVERYTHING SPEEDS UP FROM HERE. **

**I don't think I'll be done by November 8th, but I'm going to work my frickin' hardest to get there. 'Cause I want to hand CP a complete manuscript on his book tour (has anyone heard anything about that? I can't find a schedule!). **

**ENJOY. Well, you don't have to enjoy this chapter. Well, you kindof do. You know what, howabout you just leave a review and give me tips on how to make this chapter better? That would be FANTASTIC. So, here you go!  
**

**Chapter 42: New Orders**

But it was like the King knew something was changing, like he knew something was wrong, because one minute Murtagh was alone on the beach, calm and almost content, and the next, a Black Letter was nudging his feet.

Most of the time the letters attacked him; this one, it seemed, had lost heart on its' long journey, and could barely poke him. Its tip was dented and part of a corner ripped out, probably from a branch, and it was wet, sandy, and muddy.

Before Murtagh could get angry, Thorn interrupted.

_It's like it's dying._ The dragon laughed. _Like it knows its' Lord is doomed._

The letter bumped against Murtagh's boot again, fluttered weakly, and dropped to the ground, defeated.

Murtagh didn't want to pick it up; he wanted to watch it struggle on the ground like he had so many times… but his vows forced him down, to wrap his fingers around the squirming thing and peel it open.

_MURTAGH!_

The Rider stumbled back as the King's booming voice blasted through the letter.

_YOU DAMNED BASTARD! WHY DID YOU ABANDON YOUR DUTIES? WHAT LED YOU TO SHIRK THE ONES WHO WORK TO PROTECT YOU? WHO ARE LOYAL TO YOU? WHY WOULD YOU DOOM THOSE SOLDIERS TO DIE? _

Murtagh gritted his teeth. Of course it wasn't about the soldiers- it was about the King's power. But his smooth tongue would never trick him again.

_YOU ARE THROUGH, WHEN I SEE YOU AGAIN! PREPARE FOR YOUR SHADEHOOD, MORZAN'S BASTARD! YOU WILL HAVE MORE VOWS, MORE RESTRICTIONS- YOU WON'T EVEN BE ALLOWED OUT OF YOUR ROOMS WITHOUT MY PERMISSION!_

Was the King threatening to ground Murtagh? Something in the situation made Murtagh smile rather than grind his teeth in fury.

Murtagh could hear the King huffing for breath through the letter; was he weezing, too?

_Return to Uru'baen. Immediately- no stopping unless it's life or death, and I am not to be toyed with! Unless Thorn is getting struck from the sky and you are bleeding dry, you DO NOT STOP! I have an errand to run, since you are too unpredictable to complete the task to my satifaction. Run the castle; arrange for council meetings; host the typical dinners. _

_ And do not forget that I asked you to watch my sons Karth and Furdor- they are running some mischief, I am sure. Whether or not it will be… acceptable… in my sight, is another matter entirely. _

_ Until we meet again, Murtagh. Tell Thorn I will tear of his wings if you run anymore havoc in my country- and if not his wings, his tail, or I will simply shave off his scales and make the most glorious cloak for myself. _

_ Do not disappoint me. _

Murtagh paused, listening to the King's voice echo over the water and die out- then he burned the letter, so the ashes were lost in the waves.

Who cared what the King said. He wouldn't follow through with hurting Thorn like that; he would turn Murtagh into a Shade and be done with it.

The eldunarya murmured among each other, keeping their words hidden from Murtagh; at first, he thought it was because they heard the King's voice for the first time in years, and for some, in their lives. But they couldn't hide the uneasy aura seeping through their lights, how their brightness flickered and dimmed.

Morzan's bastard. That's what the King had called him.

_I'm not!_ Murtagh wanted to scream. _I'm not Morzan_!

But he was silent, because he felt their hearts harden, he knew they would not listen. No one ever did. Once they knew the truth of his heritage, his words, his thoughts, his opinions- all discarded, all ignored.

But one light burned even brighter with this news; one heart flared white-hot, but the others smothered it, pushing him back down into the nothing. It only took a moment for Murtagh to realize why:

It was one of the Forsworn.

And it was eager, it was excited, to hear of him, to see him, to hear of another one of the- the Cursed-

It thought they were similar- that they were equals, though one had a body and the other two did not-

It thought he was one of them-

Murtagh didn't know who reacted first, who exploded first: him or Thorn. Hard to say, considering that they said the same thing at the same time.

_WE ARE NOT FORSWORN!_

But already, they did not have the time to explain, the time to tell the eldunarya their miserable story, and not like Murtagh wanted too; their vows were already working against them, forcing Murtagh towards Thorn, or Thorn towards Murtagh, whichever. Murtagh had to argue his way to retrieving his boots; Thorn did not even have the chance to balance himself before he was tumbling in mid-air towards the beach.

And Murtagh could still hear the murmurs of the astounded eldunarya, most of whom felt this to be a second Betrayal, that their murderer's son should be their Lord-

And that he was Galbatorix's servant-

And that he was ordered to Uru-baen-

And that he couldn't recover them-

And that their Greatest Hope was also their Weakest Link.

_He was chosen by the Greatest of the Dragons. _Hava argued; _He has reasons, and we shall know them soon enough. Fly swiftly, Heir, and true, Son of Eridor; may you return victorious, and soon. _

Like they would have a choice. But they wouldn't, because they were just as dependant, just as helpless, as the bodiless Hearts, because they didn't even have minds to call their own.

And Zar'roth laughed at Murtagh's misery.

* * *

Just because it's a double update doesn't mean you don't have to review this chapter! Do it anyway!


	43. Chapter 43 Smoke in the Rain

Here you go, Part 2! I think it's obvious which chapter is better- you'll learn soon enough! And it's longer, too!

**Chapter 43: Smoke in the Rain**

Whether it was a stroke of luck or Murtagh's uncanny ability to attract misery, he and Thorn barely made it across the sea due to a storm of the most violent kind. Lightning electrified the air around them and bolted immediately next to them; the rain blinded both of them, and even Murtagh's strongest shields faltered under the storm's relentless attack.

And the cold! Between the wind and their average height, Murtagh shivered, even though the rain sizzled and steamed whenever it hit Thorn's flank.

There was no avoiding it; even magic of the strongest kind couldn't suppress the fury of nature.

But was it chance or fate that drove the pair to land? Was it chance that the King allowed them the one thing they needed- permission to land 'if Thorn was getting struck from the sky'? Was it chance that they could not pass the Spine in that weather?

Was it chance, nothing but random sport, or Providence, following the plan of an Ultimate Being? Had some greater Person chosen this uncomfortable change, this twist of Fate that drove Murtagh and Thorn to prowl through the forest, looking for some sort of shelter from the storm's fury?

Murtagh was too exhausted, too cold, and too depressed to reason it out, or even try.

Thorn's mood lifted when he found, and ate, a grizzly bear (_It was delicious. Quite plump- not to much muscle, not to much fat. We should hunt here more often.)_ But Murtagh's sour mood thrived on the fact that he was soaked from head to toe, he only had Jura's eldunari available, no decent, dried food, and no… no anything, really. No two-legged company (_Fine then. I don't need to talk to you._ Thorn replied to that,) no shelter, and he just happened to be in the same general vicinity where an entire army of Galbatorix's had disappeared.

An entire _army. _

That wasn't just a battalion of a hundred, nor a legion of some thousand. It was an _army_¸ over twenty thousand men, and they just…

Vanished.

It was like they had fallen off of the face of the earth. Nothing was ever heard from them, not a single word, and no one who ever went looking for anything of them- a boot, a sword, _something_- had ever come back. Galbatorix had commissioned such trips; oh, he had sent hundreds and hundreds of eager courtiers towards the Spine to find his lost army.

And no one had ever seen them again.

Ever.

But Thorn, dear Thorn, was impervious to that _minor_ fact. The rain hardly bothered him, now that they were on the ground; he was amused by the fact that he sank ankle-deep into the mud, that Murtagh couldn't see anything, that they had no where to go and made no sign of getting anywhere.

And the farther they walked, higher and higher up a mountain, the more miserable Murtagh became, not just because of the brooding darkness, or the hunger that could not be satisfied by getting energy from the surroundings, but of something he could not explain, a feeling in his gut that _something was wrong._

Granted, Murtagh knew that quite a few things were wrong, that many more things had the potential- could be- wrong. But this was different. This was the voice in the back of his mind, whispering that there was danger ahead, that he should turn around, that the storm was a milder enemy compared to whatever laid ahead…

This was the rock that dropped into his stomach, the sensation that made his fingers instinctively reach for Zar'roc, that made him look over his shoulder because… because…

_Something was watching them. _

He just knew it. Whether it was paranoia from days and months among gossiping courtiers and jealous nobles, he knew it in his gut- _something was watching them. _

He couldn't even say someone, because he didn't have proof of that. His first attempts to shake off the feeling failed, and as the night grew inexplicably longer, and they seemed to be making less progress rather than more, Murtagh's suspicions were confirmed.

The Spine was cursed. Haunted, perhaps, but by what devilry? Surely not a Shade- he couldn't imagine that, for his own sanity's sake- but by something far, far more dangerous, like a monstrous beast longing to be freed, groaning against its chains…

But what?

And as the hours wore on, the minutes passing like days, even Thorn's cheerfulness faded, slipping away like sand in an hourglass, until-

_Do you smell that?_

_ What?_ Of course Murtagh couldn't smell whatever it was; that didn't mean he couldn't hear Thorn's tone.

The dragon wasn't _scared- _of course he wasn't! The thought was ridiculous. Curious, endlessly curious, and… apprehensive. A touch eager, a tad suspicious- nothing much, in his opinion, but all the same, it was better than looking for nothing in the dark, wet world.

So, naturally, Fate (or Providence or Chance) led them to follow that strange scent, which Murtagh could understand through Thorn's mind.

_Is that… smoke? _

_ In the middle of a rainstorm? _

Naturally, the situation did not add up, and the farther they tracked it, the stronger it became, like multiple paths were intersecting, joining, growing, all leading towards the same place.

_And it just wasn't right. _

Something about it- something about how they were in the middle of a forest, in the middle of the _Spine_¸ in the middle of a storm, in the middle of the night…

Was it Fate, or Chance, or Providence, that led them to the mouth of the mountains? Was it Fate that Thorn smelled smoke, that he smelled fire, in the middle of a rain storm?

And since they were already there, of course they went in. And, of course, it started hailing as soon as Murtagh's foot touched the dry rock, successfully locking them in. It would be madness to go flying in a hailstorm, obviously.

The smoke was so strong, even Murtagh could smell it, even through the humidity and the general mugginess of the night. And the cave was even big enough for Thorn, so far, and more besides.

Just the opening rivaled the Throne Room in height and width, though depth was another matter entirely, since Murtagh couldn't see the back. He sent a flare of light ahead of them, and it disappeared around a turn- Murtagh knew it continued on its path by the way his energy was slowly draining.

_Further in? _

_ Further in. _

They tromped deeper and deeper into the darkness, to the point where they couldn't hear the roar of the storm- a welcome change, in Murtagh's opinion. And the deeper they crawled, the stronger Murtagh's sense of unease grew-

_Something was watching them. _

No, no- _somethings. _Plural. There was no denying it- even Thorn agreed that something was off in the cave.

But something was right, too. Something about them being there was right- it was good and productive and should have happened years and years ago-

Murtagh didn't have any clue where those ideas were coming from, even if he agreed with them-

And Thorn stepped on something undoubtedly metallic; the ringing snap was like a bell, the sound magnifying as it echoed-

Murtagh took a step forward, sending red light at the warped, broken metal on the ground.

A sword.

A rusty, broken, blood-stained, ruined sword. And not just any rusty, broken, blood-stained, ruined sword; it had the mark of the King, it had the blazened crest of Galbatorix, it had-

It had the red banner, the rising sun, the head on the spear-

And undoubtedly, it was the sword of someone from the Lost Army. Thorn's attention shifted to something moldy up ahead- a shield-

And all around them, the Red Ones picked out remnants of a vast army, a buckle here, a dagger there-

But no people. Not a single one.

And naturally, the two marched on, determined to find the end, to find the source of the bloodshed. Murtagh didn't know how long they continued, how far they walked, how long, how many things they found-

And the further they walked the smaller the tunnel became- not a promising thing, in Thorn's opinion, and more cluttered with animal bones (again, no human remains) and various ruined weapons and the makings of a half-pitched camp when-

_Oi! Murtagh! What happened to your light? _

Murtagh was wondering the same thing- it wasn't that he did not have the energy to sustain it, but suddenly, unexplicably, the cave itself prevented the magic, like a great barrier blocking them-

And somehow he knew that whatever had been watching them, whatever had been stalking them, whatever had been following them-

It had them cornered.

Yes, they could turn around, but they could only go so far before the storm halted their progress. But were they cowards? Would they shirk away from whatever danger taunted them? Would they retreat at the prospect of a battle- not even a real one, yet, but just the possibility of one? Would they run from a fight?

They were young and angry.

Of course they moved on.

Murtagh kept Zar'roc in his hand, though it worried Thorn- they couldn't see anything in front of them, and he fretted that Murtagh would trip and impale himself.

_I'm so glad you are so confident in my abilities. _

_I'm looking out for you! _Thorn argued, _I'm your dragon! You're more easily hurt than I am!_

_ And you're going to be the first to hit your head on the ceiling. _

_ That's not my fault. _

_ And it's not my fault that we can't see anything. _

And it wasn't his fault that the rock in his gut seemed to be growing heavier, that the threat was closer, waiting for them, eager for their arrival-

They rounded a corner- Murtagh kept his hand on the wall of the cavern and felt the shift- and the change was immediate-

Fire, red-hot and hungry, sprang to life in brazers around the massive chamber, the flames leaping from torch to torch, lighting the entire room within moments of Murtagh and Thorn's arriving. The room was ten times the size of the Throne Room- it was the belly of an entire mountain, like Farthen Dur-

And a man stood in the middle, arms spread wide in greeting. His hair was wild and unkempt, whether it was on his head or his chin didn't matter, a mane of rust-red and gray that fanned his scarred face; his clothes were dirty and worn, and Thorn could smell the filth on him even though he was at least half a mile away. A maniac smile was across his face; his eyes held the look of a captured animal, dying to be freed.

"Welcome, Lords." His voice broke and his words sounded clumsy, like his tongue wasn't used to speaking. "Welcome, Friends, to your doom."

And he drew a sword whiter than pure snow.

* * *

The next chapter's title: When Fire and Ice Collide. :D Remember to review!


	44. Chapter 44 Chapter 43 2 The Cave

**I reread the last chapter and realized that it wasn't as great as I thought it was. XP So... here's the second draft! I'm not going to delete the first one (yet) so that you guys can compare at your leisure. I fixed the style and flow- I think. Please review! I'll answer review questions in the next chapter. **

**Enjoy!  
**

**Chapter 43**: The Cave

Murtagh's mood incarnated into a storm of the most violent kind, hounding them as their vows dragged them across the sea. The rain stung their eyes and drenched Murtagh in a matter of minutes; it sizzled and steamed whenever it hit Thorn's hot flank- as if Murtagh needed another cloud around him.

Lightning and thunder only aggravated the problem. The white-hot bolts of electricity blinded the pair and sent Thorn skittering across the sky, trying to avoid them; the air crackled and even sparked around them, and at one point, Murtagh's soaking wet pants caught fire. He never understood how that happened.

The thunder, so close, deafened the pair, and the rumbles penetrated Murtagh's strongest silencing shields, just like the rain seeped through his attempts at a dry bubble around himself. The bass note of the storm vibrated through Murtagh's body and echoed in Thorn's barrel belly; there was no spell to stop that, nor did Murtagh have the strength to try one.

And the cold! Between the wind, the wet, and their average height, Murtagh shivered and gave up trying to keep comfortable in that weather. His only consolation came from the fact that they would be useless in Uru'baen if they were dying of pneumonia.

The sight of land- wet land, but land all the same- was blessed relief. They'd have to land in the wilderness; Narda was several hours away, and neither had the stamina to fight the storm much longer. The King had even given them allowance for landing 'if Thorn was getting struck from the sky'; Thorn decided to take that as their first bit of good luck, rather than wondering if the King had devised a method of scrying the future.

And so they reached the mountains.

Thorn didn't mind; better hunting, as he said. But Murtagh had misgivings about the Spine, about the rumors that surrounded Alagaesia's backbone.

And the merciless storm continued.

But was it chance or fate that drove them to land? Was it chance that the King allowed them the one thing they needed- permission to land 'if Thorn was getting struck from the sky'? Was it chance that they could not pass the Spine in that weather?

Was it chance, nothing but random sport, or Providence, following the plan of an Ultimate Being? Had some greater Person chosen this uncomfortable change, this twist of Fate that bought them time?

Murtagh was too exhausted, too cold, and too depressed to reason it out, or even try.

Thorn's mood lifted when he found, and ate, a grizzly bear (_It was delicious. Quite plump- not to much muscle, not to much fat. We should hunt here more often.)_ But Murtagh's sour mood thrived on the fact that he was soaked from head to toe, he only had Jura's eldunari available, no decent, dried food, and no… no anything, really. No two-legged company (_Fine then. I don't need to talk to you._ Thorn replied to that,) no shelter, and he just happened to be in the same general vicinity where an entire army of Galbatorix's had disappeared.

An entire _army. _

That wasn't just a battalion of a hundred, nor a legion of some thousand. It was an _army_¸ over twenty thousand men, and they just…

Vanished.

It was like they had fallen off of the face of the earth. Nothing was ever heard from them, not a single word, and no one who ever went looking for anything of them- a boot, a sword, _something_- had ever come back. Galbatorix had commissioned such trips; oh, he had sent hundreds and hundreds of eager courtiers towards the Spine to find his lost army.

And no one had ever seen them again.

Ever.

But Thorn, dear Thorn, was impervious to that _minor_ fact. The rain hardly bothered him, now that they were on the ground; he was amused by the fact that he sank ankle-deep into the mud, that Murtagh couldn't see anything, that they had no where to go and no sign of getting anywhere.

And the farther they walked, wandering in the forest for some shelter, the more miserable Murtagh became. Not just because of the brooding darkness, or the hunger that could not be satisfied by getting energy from the surroundings, but of something he could not explain, a feeling in his gut that _something was wrong._

Granted, Murtagh knew that quite a few things were wrong, that many more things had the potential- could be- wrong. But this was different. This was the voice in the back of his mind, whispering that there was danger ahead, that he should turn around, that the storm was a milder enemy that was laid ahead…

This was the rock that dropped into his stomach, the sensation that made his fingers instinctively reach for Zar'roc, that made him look over his shoulder because… because…

_Something was watching them. _

He just knew it. Whether it was paranoia from days and months among gossiping courtiers and jealous nobles, he knew it in his gut- _something was watching them. _

He couldn't even say someone, because he didn't have proof of that. His first attempts to shake off the feeling failed, and as Thorn teased him for worrying, Murtagh only grew more confident that something was honestly amiss.

The Spine was cursed. Haunted, perhaps, but by what devilry? Surely not a Shade- he couldn't imagine that, for his own sanity's sake- but by something far, far more dangerous, like a monstrous beast longing to be freed, groaning against its chains…

But what?

As a child he had heard of ghosts, of wraiths, of phantoms of the dead; he had spent sleepless nights trembling in the dark, terrified that they would eat him alive. He had heard of the spirits that floated across Alagaesia, as fickle as the damn weather; angry ones, perhaps, could be part of the Spine's problem.

But even then, Murtagh knew he was lying to himself, that ghosts or spirits could not make an entire army disappear.

And as the minutes like days wore on, even Thorn's cheerfulness faded, slipping away like sand in an hourglass, until-

_Do you smell that?_

_ What?_ Of course Murtagh couldn't smell whatever it was; that didn't mean he couldn't hear Thorn's tone.

The dragon wasn't _scared- _of course he wasn't! The thought was ridiculous. Curious, endlessly curious, and… apprehensive. A touch eager, a tad suspicious- nothing much, in Thorn's opinion, but all the same, it was better than looking for nothing in the dark, wet world.

So, naturally, Fate (or Providence or Chance) led them to follow that strange scent, which Murtagh could understand through Thorn's mind.

_Is that… smoke? In the middle of a rainstorm? _

Murtagh could feel Thorn's indesision seeping through their bond like the water had through his shield. He had the better nose of the two of them; there was no point in trusting Murtagh's inadequate senses. _I don't know. It's… earthy, somehow. Like whatever is burning isn't.. isn't wood. Does that make sense? _

Of course it didn't, and the farther they tracked the unnatural smell, the stronger it became, like several paths intersecting, weaving together like an invisible road.

_And it just wasn't right. _

Something about it- something about how they were in the middle of a forest, in the middle of the _Spine_¸ in the middle of a storm, in the middle of the night…

Thorn kept his head down and his tail up, following the trail like a bloodhound- precise and determined. Murtagh followed behind, his head down to keep the rain out of his eyes and to make sure he didn't step in a sinkhole. So neither of them noticed the cliff until they were already upon it, and to double their confusion, the path led right up the stone wall, over the ledge and out of sight.

_You stay here and find something to eat. _Thorn suggested, knowing full well that Murtagh's mood was directly connected to the quality of his last meal. _I'll follow it for a little while longer; I'll come get you, alright? _

_ Just because you don't feel uneasy doesn't mean we should split up. _

Thorn admitted the truth of his Rider's words, but he was a dragon; he could take care of himself.

But that didn't help Murtagh's constant feeling of unease; it didn't settle his frazzled nerves. Sure, he found a decent, if gnarled, apple tree; yes, finding that fresh spring was reviving. But what he would do for some hot bread and butter…

But _something_ was so _wrong_…

_Murtagh! Murtagh! Is there anyone nearby? I found a cave- the smell-of-smoke-that-is-not-smoke is coming from it; it's big enough for both of us, comfortably. Is there anyone close by? I can't smell any two-leggeds; just the same, earthy whatever-it-is. _

Murtagh took a steadying breath, bracing himself for what he hated the most- making himself vulnerable to everyone and anyone within his mental range. Yes, he found lights of life, the flares of mental abilities, but they were small and deep inside one of the mountains- fish, perhaps, but they were too far to tell.

_I'm coming to get you. _Thorn crowed, overjoyed at his success. _Perhaps we'll be able to sleep tonight. _

And, of course, the opposite happened.

It started hailing as soon as Murtagh's foot touched the dry rock, successfully locking them in the cave- both Rider and Dragon agreed that flying in a hailstorm would be quite detrimental to their health. But Thorn was right about size and smell; they had found the right place, undoubtedly.

The smoke was so strong, even Murtagh could smell it, even through the humidity and the general mugginess of the night. And the cave was even big enough for Thorn, so far, and more besides.

Just the opening rivaled the Throne Room in height and width, the depth was another matter entirely, since Murtagh couldn't see the back. He sent a flare of light ahead of them, and it disappeared around a turn- Murtagh knew it continued scouting the cave by the way it drained his energy.

_Further in? Something has to be burning; perhaps it is stone, like within mountains-that-breathe-fire? _

Even smelling with his own nose, Murtagh had no answer. _Further in. _

Murtagh lit a second flame, ordering it to hover several spans in front of them; he added two more, on either side, because one didn't suffice to drive away the shadows. But the darkness could not be avoided. They headed deep into the cave, to the point where they couldn't hear the roar of the storm- a welcome change, in Murtagh's opinion. But the deeper they crawled, the stronger Murtagh's sense of unease grew; was the darkness fueling his anxiety? Was that a pair of eyes in those shadows?

_Something was watching them. _

No, no- _somethings. _Plural. There was no denying it- even Thorn agreed that something was off in the cave, beyond the unfamiliar smell. It was like an abandoned house; unmistakably, it had been used before, but dust covered the tracks of whoever had come before them.

And Thorn answered that question, stepping on something undoubtedly metallic; the ringing snap was like a bell, magnifying as it echoed on the walls-

Murtagh took a step forward, sending red light at the warped, broken metal on the ground.

A sword.

A rusty, broken, blood-stained, ruined sword. And not just any rusty, broken, blood-stained, ruined sword; it had the mark of the King, it had the blazened crest of Galbatorix, it had-

It had the red banner, the rising sun, the head on the spear-

And undoubtedly, it was the sword of someone from the Lost Army. Thorn's attention shifted to something moldy up ahead- a shield-

And all around them, the Red Ones picked out remnants of a vast army, a buckle here, a dagger there-

But no people. Not a single one.

_Thorn… _

Even the cheerful dragon couldn't ignore the gloom, the unsettling aspect of the cave; even he couldn't ignore the dread rising like bile in Murtagh's throat…

But they couldn't stop. They had passed the point of no return; they had crossed the inevitable line between curiosity and courage. They could not go back, and not only because of the hail. They could not go back, because they would never have another chance of returning.

And the darkness only grew more oppressive, more haunting, more… _alive. _The shadows played tricks with Murtagh's mind- was that a pair of eyes?- and branching tunnels sprouted from the main one, too small for Thorn, each smelling different…

One had an unmistakable metallic note to it; rusty, undoubtedly, but not threatening.

The same could not be said for the others.

A shudder raced down the pair's back when they recognized the salty smell of blood- not flesh or animals, just blood-

Thorn was the first to realize one reeked of rotting meat; animal or human, they didn't want to know…

And the further they walked the smaller the tunnel became- not a promising thing, in Thorn's opinion, and more cluttered with animal bones (again, no human remains) and various ruined weapons and the makings of a half-pitched camp when-

It swallowed them entirely.

Murtagh's lights went out, not of his accord, but of something else's; the darkness overwhelmed them, pressing upon them-

Murtagh suddenly remembered the cold, dark days he spent in Galbatorix's dungeons, and panic made his heart start beating ever faster-

Inexplicably, the cave itself prevented the magic, like a great barrier blocking them- like it wanted them _alive- _

And somehow he knew that whatever had been watching them, whatever had been stalking them, whatever had been following them-

It had them cornered.

Turning around was useless- Murtagh wasn't even sure where the exit was anymore, which was was backwards. But were they cowards? Would they shirk away from whatever danger taunted them? Would they retreat at the prospect of a battle- not even a real one, yet, but just the possibility of one? Would they run from a fight?

The memory of his lonely, painful days in that prison only stirred the slumbering anger in Murtagh's heart-

No one, _no one, _whether King or criminal or Rider, had the right to hurt anyone like that.

_NO ONE. _

It was his anger that fueled Murtagh to press through the darkness; it was Thorn's bitterness over Murtagh's pain that kept them close, one feeling the right side, the other, the left.

Murtagh kept Zar'roc in his hand like Thorn kept his teeth bared; they were prepared for whatever wanted them, for whatever atrocities laid ahead-

And Thorn no longer ignored the rock of dread, growing heavier in Murtagh's gut; the feeling that the threat was closer, waiting for them, eager for their arrival-

They rounded a corner- Murtagh kept his hand on the wall of the cavern and felt the shift- and the change was immediate-

Fire, red-hot and hungry, sprang to life in brazers around the massive chamber, the flames leaping from torch to torch, lighting the entire room within moments of Murtagh and Thorn's arriving. The room was ten times the size of the Throne Room- it was the belly of an entire mountain, like Farthen Dur-

Both Rider and Dragon hissed in pain at the brightness, at the suddenness of the light. But both recovered within an instant, because the life in there was not at all insignificant; it was not small and meaningless, not the primitiveness of any cave-dwelling _fish -_

And a man stood in the middle of the cavern, arms spread wide in greeting. His hair was wild and unkempt, whether it was on his head or his chin didn't matter, forming a mane of rust-red and gray that fanned his scarred face. His clothes were dirty and worn, and Thorn could smell the filth on him even though he was at least half a mile away. A maniac smile was across his face; his eyes held the look of a captured animal, dying to be freed.

"Welcome, Lords." His voice broke and his words sounded clumsy, like his tongue wasn't used to speaking. "Welcome, Friends, to your doom."

And he drew a sword whiter than pure snow.


	45. Chapter 45 When Fire and Ice Collide

**Today is the one year birthday of Sons of War! Enjoy the chapter! **

**But anyway, you guys have been letting me down! I post three chapters within a week and get 5 reviews on the first, 11 on the second, and only 4 on the third? Hello? You guys have given me 22 on a single chapter before! Therefore, I won't post again until I've got 15 reviews. You guys can do it- you've done it before, many many times. I BELIEVE IN YOU. (haha, sorry about the cheesiness) Just give me a few more, people! **

**Anyway, enjoy!  
**

**Chapter 44: When Fire and Ice Collide**

The man had no fear. In a suicidal charge, he let loose a screaming battle-cry and started running towards the two, and whether panic, recklessness, or courage was in his eyes, Murtagh couldn't tell.

Zar'roc was prepared for a fight, but Thorn had other ideas.

_We can't just kill him. _He argued, waiting as the man grew closer and closer. _He's not right in the head. _

_ We seem to attract that kind of people, don't we? _

_ Put him in the dome, or something! I don't want to hurt him!_

Neither of them did, even if it was purely because of his sword. If there was any chance he was a Rider, any hope that he was anyone who could help them…

_The block is still up, Thorn. Try your magic; I've never felt anything like this before. _

Two hundred feet away…

Thorn started humming, his entire frame perfectly still, his eyes closed…

A hundred feet…

It came to it; Murtagh took a step forward to protect his dragon, Zar'roc in hand, prepared for the man. No, no, he took a few steps forward, to give them some room. He was prepared for the best, for a hundred or more years of experience and training, for a Rider's talent-

The man raised his sword over his head, still screaming, and swung in a wide arc- Murtagh side-stepped it easily. Too easily. Something was still wrong. The man screamed again, but his form was horrendous- Murtagh didn't want to attack, in case provoking him like that would snap him out of his stupor and revive the slumbering talent within him, but his skills were blatantly awful. He swung his sword like a club, trying to hack off one of Murtagh's limbs, perhaps, and instead slammed his beautiful sword against the stone, sending sparks everywhere-

"Gale, what's going- GALE!" Out of the corner of his eye, Murtagh saw a small form appear to his far left; a woman, undoubtedly, and probably an elf, by the way she ran.

"GALE! STOP! GALE- WHO THE BLAZES ARE YOU?"

Murtagh knew, of course, that the question was directed at him, and what a question it was- he dodged another child-esque swing and parried, trying to knock the man's sword out of his hands.

"GET AWAY FROM HIM, MORZAN! YOU WILL NOT TAKE HIM FROM ME!"

Murtagh ducked under another wild, uncontrolled attack and rolled across the cold stone, so the he was suddenly behind the man- And what should have been behind him, wasn't.

_Thorn! _

_What? Stop distracting me! I'm trying to concentrate_!

Momentarily astounded, Murtagh felt the white blade skim his head, felt the warm metal cut through his skin, saw the gush of red as blood poured down his forehead, into his right eye- He heard the fighter's maniac laughter, his pleasure at Murtagh's pain-

_And Galbatorix laughed at Murtagh's agony, at the irony that his sword was named after his constant state: Misery. His eyes glowed with the flame of insanity, with pride, even, that he had caused someone like Murtagh to fall so hard-_

He heard the woman's cry, slowly; the words didn't register at first, leaking into his ears and crawling through his mind- Morzan- She had called him MORZAN-

All restraint vanished like vapor in the wind; all of Murtagh's control evaporated, leaving nothing but his raw anger, his pain, his misery- The swords of fire and ice collided in a shower of sparks, and Murtagh twisted around to get a better grip-

T_horn, where are you? _

_I haven't moved! I'm right here! _

_What are you doing? I can't see you_!

Zar'roc slid down the white sword, fire overpowering ice in a burst of flames-

_I'm invisible-! Ha! This cave cannot control all magic, Murtagh! Keep the two-leggeds busy, while I explore! _

_Thorn-!_

The wind from Thorn's wings buffeted Murtagh and pushed the streaming blood across his face, but he saw Zar'roc push the white sword out of the wild man's hands, saw it crash to the floor, useless-

"GALE!"

"Move, and he dies!" Murtagh cried, pulling the man into a choke hold.

The woman skidded to a halt, loose stones skipping across the cave floor. Panic, as wild as the man's recklessness, burned in her eyes; one look and Murtagh knew that the man struggling against his iron grip meant more than the world to her. Her lip started trembling, and a vision flashed before his eyes-

_Mila, terror shining in her eyes, clinging to the boy who was undoubtedly her sweetheart, watching him, the Murderer, the Monster-_

"Let him go, Morzan." She snarled, hands fisted at her sides, tears glistening in her eyes. Her teeth were gritted, and her voice cracked as she attempted, and failed, to appear authoritative. The turban on her head trembled, and a few hairs shook loose of their confinement.

"Morzan has been dead for 16 years." Murtagh snapped, his patience deadly thin. _Thorn, where are you? _"You will answer my questions."

She tipped up her chin a tad higher- here was a fighter. He could see very clearly that she didn't trust him, and considering that she thought he was Morzan, something was obviously wrong.

"Gale- who is he?"

She didn't reply.

"Who are you?"

"I asked you the same question."

"Who are you?" Murtagh repeated, louder, holding Gale tighter.

She swallowed, gnawing on her bottom lip.

"Who are you?"

"I cannot answer."

"Who are you?" Murtagh wrestled down his rising frustration; that wouldn't help crack that stubborn woman. "Who are you? Just tell me your name."

"I can't."

"And why not?"

She swallowed again. "I- I have vows-"

"Gale," Murtagh began, "Who is she? Who is your defender?"

He only lessened his grip enough that Gale could push out an answer. "You murdering, filthy-"

No use there, obviously.

_Murtagh! Come here! The smell is getting even stronger! I smell clean air and leather and meat and fire! I smell wonderful things! Come! Bring the two leggeds! _

_ Don't distract me. _Murtagh retorted. _I'll come on my own time. _

"You must answer my questions." Murtagh repeated. "There is always a way around vows."

"How would you know?" She snapped, her eyes brimming with tears again. "How would a demon like you-"

"I have vows too!" Murtagh snarled, losing control again. The wrongness of the situation was setting him on edge- he had to be more careful- "And if you call me Morzan one more time, by god, I'll hurt him, I swear I will. Morzan is dead."

"LIAR!" She screamed, her blue, feline eyes blazing. What was an elf doing underground, so far away from her native forest? "LIAR! I SAW HIM YESTERDAY! I SAW MORZAN, DON'T YOU SAY HE'S DEAD-"

"HE'S BEEN DEAD FOR SIXTEEN YEARS!" Murtagh roared, his choke hold on Gale tightening instinctively. "HE'S DEAD AND GONE! BROM KILLED HIM! HE'S DEAD!"

"YOU'RE MORZAN!" She screamed again, "YOU HAVE HIS SWORD! YOU HAVE ZAR'ROC, YOU'RE MORZAN-"

It was effortless, and frighteningly so. Murtagh snapped Gale's arm like it was a toothpick, and his screams echoed and mingled with the woman's in the cave.

"I am not Morzan." Murtagh repeated, holding Gale back. "I am Murtagh, Son of None, Heir of the Vault, and you will listen to me."

It was the first time he had audibly admitted it- that he was the Heir. He expected his words to bounce off of her- they were meant to intimidate, after all- but that was not the case.

She stepped back, horror and shock written across her face, and it lost all of its color. Her hand- her hands started _trembling- _and Gale- did he just faint?- because he was suddenly dead weight in Murtagh's arms-

"But- but you can't be-" She whimpered, like a dog that had just been beaten. "But you _can't be- _Hava said- Hava said-"

"Who are you?" Murtagh replied, gentler somehow, because the fact that she understood, that she knew of Hava, of eldunari, was unsettling, was _wrong_-

"Say it." She murmured, her eyes downcast. "Say it."

He knew what she meant; that she wanted it said in the Ancient Language, to prove that he wasn't lying.

"I am Murtagh, Heir of the Vault, and I wish you no harm. Tell me your name."

The effect was instantaneous. It bore down upon him like an avalanche, a mountain of responsibility, of knowledge, of duty-

"The vows are broken." She told him, looking at him with an expression not of resentment, but of mixed hope and horror. "You are the Heir, and we promised to help you if you helped us." She took a steadying breath; Murtagh almost couldn't keep up, because that meant- "I am Lenora, one of the Lost, one of the Last Grey. Come, come; the others are awakened. They wish to meet you, Lord."

_Had she just called him- lord? _

_ MURTAGH! _Thorn screamed, half of terror, half of shock- _MURTAGH! THINGS ARE LIVING HERE- MURTAGH, THEY'RE- _

The roar drowned out whatever Thorn was going to say, even in Murtagh's mind.


	46. Chapter 46 Awakening

**I'm back! **I also finished Inheritance. (sigh) I didn't like it. I'm sorry... it just wasn't... what I was hoping for. It didn't feel right. Maybe I'll write a review and post it somewhere... But in happy news, have any of you seen the new Hunger Games trailer? It is ABSOLUTELY AWESOME.

Anyway, thank you guys SO MUCH for all of your reviews- they make me happy. I know this chapter isn't my best, but I just wanted to update; I'll try an Eragon chapter next. We'll see.

Enjoy!

**Chapter 45: Awakened**

It shook the floors and rattled the loose stones; Murtagh braced himself for the impact, but Lenora swayed with the vibrations, her eyes closed and a slight smile across her face. The roar drowned out all thought and aroused Gale, who had indeed fainted; Murtagh didn't bother trying to stop him.

_MURTAGH! MURTAGH, THEY'RE HERE! MURTAGH, MURTAGH-!_

It was impossible, all of it. It wasn't- it couldn't be- it didn't-

_THE HEIR HAS COME TO US! FLAMES, FOES, FIRE, FLY, FLY! AWAKE! THE HOUR OF DARKNESS HAS PASSED! AWAKE! _

"Come, Lord. Gale, come here. The Heir has broken the binds of this prison; come."

Gale needed no further promptings. He hurried towards Lenora, the wildness brooding in his eyes; her expression, though, was rapidly growing from horror, from grudging acceptance, to bliss. Her eyes brightened considerably when she saw Gale's twisted arm; Murtagh couldn't imagine why.

She laid a hand on his arm, and he did not recoil; rather, he relaxed, and before Murtagh's eyes his arm somehow mended. The purple bruise shrunk until it did not exist; the unnatural bend seamlessly straightened without a single noise coming from Lenora or Gale.

"How did you do that?" Murtagh asked, immediately suspicious. "What did you do?"

"What do you mean, what did I do?" Lenora asked. "I healed him, of course. We've been rather careful, the past few days; the vows shut down all magic in the mountain, so that we could be invisible to the outside world. For our safety, yes, but it was…"

"Bloody awful." Gale finished for her. "That felt good, didn't it, Lenn? Getting some of that out of your system?"

"And flying will do you good too, if the Lord allows it."

Both of them looked at him, at Murtagh, as if expecting him to say something.

His tongue- or was it his brain?- one of the two had shut down. It was the same with Thorn; nothing but numbness passed through their connection.

"Here, Lord; that room was the main hallway of the mountain; we're almost at the common room. Though, you may already know that- did Hava tell you to come here?" Lenora began, still watching him as they walked down the 'hallway'.

"No." Murtagh answered; did his voice have a hollow ring? "Hava never told me anything of this place."

Lenora stopped a moment, paused to look at him strangely, and jolted herself back to reality. Her mind was clearly elsewhere.

"Then who told?" Gale growled. "Vows stopped."

"A question indeed." Lenora cocked her head at Murtagh; "And if I saw Morzan, who are you- besides the Heir-, and how can it be that he is dead? Why do you say that he died sixteen years ago?"

_Murtagh…_ Thorn whimpered, _They're everywhere. _

Murtagh knew what; he just couldn't- he couldn't admit it. It had to be a dream, a false hope, just waiting to throw them down into despair once more…

"My Lord?" Lenora began.

Oh, yes. She had asked him a question. "I am Murtagh, Son of None."

"And Thorn is up ahead, correct?"

How on earth did she know that? "Yes."

Gale raised his right hand, aiming at the gaping mouth of the 'hallway'. "Brisingr!"

Nothing happened.

"Lenn," He began, "Said vows broke? Magic not work. Not right."

"Gale, when we came here we put a spell on this room. We made it so that no magician had any strength here; so that the sides would be balanced against the Dark One. Do you remember now?"

_They're everywhere, Murtagh…_

The clues clicked together in Murtagh's mind- three pieces coming together as one. "You're one of the Grey Folk; you're Lenora Havvensdaughter- you taught the Riders-"

"There are records of me?" She asked, cocking her head once more, so a few more strands of silver slipped from her turban. "Everyone I knew is dead, save the Black One and Morzan; it's been days since I've seen anyone not of the Riders, and many more since I recognized anyone who knew me back."

What question could he ask first? What could he not find from reasoning? As one of the Grey Folk, her magic must be outside of what could be controlled, and thus, could be used when all other magic was banned…

"How long have you been here?"

She shrugged; Gale was still glaring at Murtagh. "A few days. Probably a month; maybe more, maybe less. I don't keep track."

Gale shook his head. "Years, Son of None. Time nothing to her. Years."

"You've been here… since the Fall?"

Gale shuddered, and Murtagh took that as a yes. "Flying allowed? Not since exile started. You flying allowed?"

Did he not understand regular speech? He spoke normally when he met them; was something wrong with him? Murtagh sorted through his lonely phrases, trying to understand him.

"Yes- yes, Gale, flying is more than allowed. You _must _go flying."

It was so strange, giving commands to total strangers; it was even stranger how eagerly they accepted him. But Murtagh was comfortable ordering regular soldiers, typical armies; they weren't so different… they were just…

Different.

And his job was to protect them. To order them, to lead them, to ensure their survival.

Because whoever they were, they were important.

Lenora kept a steady light in front of them, pulsing happily; Gale started humming a merry tune, and somewhere far, far ahead, something massive, with a deeper, rougher voice, started humming the same melody…

_ They're here… They've been hiding… _

"Do you know Angela?" Murtagh asked, rather abruptly. He didn't know if Angela was one of the Grey Folk, but something about Lenora's disposition reminded him of that strange, strange woman…

"Angela? Angela? The one who thinks that toads are frogs? The ridiculous one? Of course I know her. She's wonderful. Remarkably talented. How do you know her?"

"She's… rather active in the world." What question next? Lenora didn't seem to be the kind to be fazed by random inquiries… "What do you mean by- by the vows are broken?"

"You broke the vows. This place was laced with many, many spells all linked to living people- you'll meet them in a moment- and your presence, as the Heir, unraveled them. You can set up new ones, if you'd like. I wouldn't recommend it, personally, because we are rather tired of sitting here in the dark for days and days. But do what you'd like; you are our Lord. We must obey you."

A rock dropped into Murtagh's stomach. "You don't mean, then, that… all vows are broken?"

" 'The vows' is rather vague, I'll admit." She shrugged. "No, Lord, if you personally have any vows, they remain the same. I won't ask- the look on your face, the texture of your aura- tell me that you probably do."

Murtagh gnawed on the inside of his cheek. His vows remained- he could tell- but if they were bound to do his will… they could do things he technically couldn't…

But what use would one crazy man and one strong woman be? How much were they capable of?

Murtagh could see the end of the tunnel, a faint light casting long shadows down the corridor.

_They're here... _

_ "_Here, here!" Gale cried, his voice echoing; "Vows broke, Heir here, fight back!"

Thorn's connection to Murtagh was weak as a spider's web, but there, pulsing, trembling, almost like Thorn was in shock...

"Watch your step." Lenora sang, avoiding a crack that ran across the corridor. "Some things you can never fix."

Murtagh was about to ask her what that meant when he stepped into the light of the cavern.

The first cavern had been large; this one dwarfed it. Three of the dragonholds of Uru'baen could have easily fit within it, and by extension, ten or so Shruikans...

Ten or so Shruikans...

Ten or so Shruikans.

But the army staring up at him, smiling at him, raising their swords to him- they were worth ten thousand Shruikans.


	47. Chapter 47 Death Pain Duty

**Well, here's the first Eragon chapter in who knows how long! I know its short, but I only had so much concentration, considering that I wrote it in a minivan with six other people. I'm in the wonderful state of Minnesota right now- I love this place so much. :) Hopefully it will continue to fuel my muse. Your reviews help too- don't worry, I won't give any spoilers. Perhaps I'll write an essay about all of its flaws. Probably not. **

**Enjoy, and have a great Thanksgiving (for everyone who actually has Thanksgiving- and everyone who doesn't. Just have a good day; I'll leave it at that.) ;)**

**Chapter 47: Death. Pain. Duty.**

Eragon groaned when he awoke; his entire body felt like it had been stripped of every muscle within it, like he was nothing but a breathing glob of misery.

"So, the little boy has finally awoken from his nap." The deadly voice crooned- not like a mother would croon to her child, but like a murderer would to calm his panicking victim. "Ready for a new adventure, little hero?"

Eragon hadn't the faintest idea of who the man was, but that didn't change his impression: this was not a friend.

"We have a host of new experiments to try on you, little Rider." A second voice joined, doing nothing to hide his pleasure in Eragon's trapped state. "And if you have any hope of escaping that pain, you will answer each of our questions truthfully and the first time we ask them."

Eragon didn't have the nerve- or was it courage? Or audacity?- to ask why he would tell them anything. Pain didn't intimidate him.

"Question one: where did the other prisoner go?"

There was another prisoner? "What other prisoner?"

"Wrong answer." The second voice laughed, and the burning touch of a poker ignited on Eragon's chest.

"Where did the witch go?"

"I don't know!"

"How did she escape?"

"I don't know!"

"You do know! When we returned, you were laying on the ground and she was gone! You had a part in it! There's no use lying, little Prince, because it will get you nowhere. We will track down the witch before the day is out, and you will be the one hearing her screams, rather than the other way around. Where is she?"

"I don't know!"

"How did she release you?"

"I don't know!"

"How did she escape her chains?"

"I don't know!"

"Where was she going?"

"I don't know!"

"She is not loyal to the Varden, the elves, the dwarves, or the King- WHERE DID SHE GO?"

"I DON'T KNOW!"

"WH-"

"Don't bother, idiot. He doesn't remember."

"But he has too! He was here, he helped her-"

"He's lost his mind, Furdor, don't be daft. We intended it to be so; our plan worked too well."

"_Our_ plan? _Your_ plan! You fool! We need her back to catch the elf-"

"The elf comes second to him! Forget the elf! Murtagh comes after Eragon!"

"NO HE DOESN'T! Murtagh is the threat! Murtagh is the problem! We have Eragon and Saphira wrapped around our fingers- they can't hurt us anymore! But Murtagh is after us- you're blind if you think otherwise! The elf is just part of the plan- she's the distraction! She's the second prize! But without the witch, how can our plan continue? We need her to get to Murtagh and Thorn! She is the one who can bring them to their knees!"

"You put all your faith in the one person who we can't control, Furdor. We bribed her. We petted her. We gave her everything she asked for, and nothing she wanted. And the second plan? Torturing her into submission? Look how that planned out- with her incapacitating us. Yes, Furdor, don't deny it. The most power we will ever have over her is killing her, and we can't even manage that."

The last part was said so softly, so smoothly, Eragon instantly knew that blood was on his mind, that he was trying to decide the quickest way to kill someone, the most painful way-

The question was who. Who was the victim of that wrath?

"Now before you continue your blathering, Furdor, I have one question for our... guest."

No one interrupted him; Eragon could feel the building fury, the electrical, tangible sense of danger growing, swelling-

"My question is simple, Eragon, but not so simple that its' answer is yes or no. I require a detailed answer from you, for I know that somewhere within that broken mind of yours the answer is hiding, and if you cannot find it... I might have too. Do you want that, Eragon? I can make this pleasant for you or very, very painful- painful, even, to the point of death."

"Death?" Furdor snarled. "We need him, idiot-"

"Silence." That single word, said so heavily, so hatefully, halted Furdor's interruption.

A pregnant pause stretched one moment, then two, and three...

Death...

"Well, Eragon?" The nameless captor whispered. "You may not fear pain and torture, but think, Eragon; think and try to remember why you lived before, and why you are determined to survive your stay with us. What impact will your death have on this sick and twisted world? Who is relying on you? Who is depending on you? Think, Eragon, think! Who were you before you came here? Who were your friends, your enemies? Who was your other half? You remember, Eragon, you must. What was your duty? Who was under your responsibility? What had you done to overcome the enemy? How had you come to power?

"Think, Eragon! Think until I do it for you! Who was your family, who did you grow up with, where did you live, what was your favorite food, pastime, story, person? Who were you, before you came here? Who was Eragon, before he joined us here in Helgrind?"

Death. Pain. Duty.

Eragon.

Death.

He was no one. He was nothing. He was a amnesic prisoner in a hole called Helgrind, and they expected him to remember a life that wasn't his.

Death would be mercy.


	48. Chapter 48 Lenora's Army

**Merry Christmas everyone! **Sorry it has taken me so long to update, but I'm back, and I want to have another chapter out before my break ends.

Anyway, people have been asking about Halia. DO NOT FEAR! She will return, though... not yet. She'll come up in Chapter 50-something.

You people are THE BEST and I LOVE YOU! Have a wonderful, delicious, fun-family-friends-filled Christmas, and feel free to bug me if I don't update soon!

**Chapter 48: Lenora's Army**

Ten thousand Shruikans stood before him, staring at him, swords and hands raised to him in fearful, elated submission.

_They're here..._ Thorn whispered, and the feeling of smallness permeating their bond. _They're here..._

They.

'They' meant so many things.

There were humans, standing before Murtagh; a grand total of eleven.

There were elves, glowering at Murtagh, smiling at him, confused at his presence; they were eight in number.

There was one chubby dwarf puffing a pipe, his hammer raised towards Murtagh, his salt and pepper beard thrown over his shoulder.

And there were the dragons.

The first, the most imposing, was easily larger than Shruiken- she was Shruikan and Thorn combined, or Thorn and Saphira thrice over; Glaedr's size. Her blinding silver scales glinted orange and red in the firelight, and her black eyes pierced Murtagh, like she was reading his character off of his clothes. A silver-haired, male elf stood next to her, his matching sword in the air.

The second dragon was undoubtedly male, an orange color muted with browns and reds. His ears and neck (which was short, for a dragon) sported frills that reminded Murtagh strongly of a lion; the end of his tail had the same unusual tufts. Thorn wasn't half his size, and standing side by side, Thorn appeared almost wiry.

The third, Murtagh immediately knew, would soon have Thorn's attention. She was a vibrant purple dragon, thin to the extreme and long rather than stocky. She seemed to smile at them; her tail twitched happily, like she could not contain her need to play and frolic and fly.

The fourth and fifth were identical to the last scale, a royal blue shade- much darker than Saphira. Their tails were unusually long and whip-like; Thorn's gaze passed over them and Murtagh felt Thorn's self-awareness of his own, scarred tail.

And the sixth hardly counted as a dragon; he didn't even come to Murtagh's knee, but when he extended his excited mind toward Murtagh, the Red Rider felt nothing but pure energy, a life who couldn't wait to really _live... _

"All hail the Lord Thorn and the Lord Murtagh, the Heir of the Vault of Souls, sent from Bid'daum and Hava!" Lenora cried.

"Hail!"

It was a hail unlike any Murtagh had ever heard.

The mountain shook as Murtagh struggled to stay on his own two feet; for his own sake he put a silencing spell over his ears, but like with the storm, Murtagh's strongest spell couldn't withstand the volume.

They were here.

They were _alive_.

"Lord Murtagh, what will you have us do?" Asked one of the men- a boy, Murtagh realized with a start- just a few years younger than himself. His sword was the rich blue of one of the twin dragons. "Please, Lord, give us a command, and I swear by mine honor and on my sword and on Braethor that we will do as you ask, to the point of death."

The silver she-dragon turned a paralyzing eye on the rash young man, and her words rumbled through Murtagh's mind, though he hated opening himself to the strangers.

_Patience, hatchling. _She began firmly. _You will not say anything more to the Heir. Mind your place; keep your rank first in mind. Such is the way of the dragon clan. _She swiveled her sharp glare on Murtagh, and Murtagh had the nagging suspicion she, like any dragon, would be loath to give up her power over this thunder.

_So you are the Heir? _She began, taking a step forward, _You who so keenly resemble Morzan? You reek of him; I know his blood is in you. I can hear him in your voice, smell him on your skin, see him in your face... I see him in your sword. _

_ If it weren't for the fact that I hear the Chief Wings in your mind, I would kill you here, for all the pain you have caused my thunder. I would kill you and I would enjoy the misery you would feel as your life-blood-hot streamed from your body for me to drink. I would rip you limb from limb, even if it meant waiting another thousand years here for the next Heir. _

_ But you are Morzan's son. I know it from the depth of my Heart. _

_ What say you, you who stands there so silent, so brooding? You of the Red? You reek of men and hot-blood-rushing-wing-death-fury and... and..._

She came to an abrupt halt, studying Murtagh. He knew Thorn longed to stand at his side and defend his Rider, but if blow came to blow, there was no contest...

All of the dragons seemed to lean forward, their nostrils twitching, trying to locate the source of the she-dragon's pause.

The two-leggeds looked at each other like they understood the source of the confusion...

But what?

_Thorn? Do I smell... strange?_

_No, not at all. You smell like yourself. It's this place that smells unnatural. _

The she-dragon bent her head closer to Murtagh, close enough that he could have touched her snout. Her steaming, smoking breath tossed his hair around his face and a few flames licked at his skin. Her eye alone was the size of Murtagh's torso; the diamond-shaped pupil contracted, picking off all of his details.

_You smell of fresh high-sky wind and of scale-less skin _(leather, Murtagh figured), _and stone and water and dirt and... _

_ You smell of leafy-green elven-havens and the sweet delicacy of... of the green-blade-soft-petal-_

_ Lavender. _A gentler, masculine voice began; the voice of her Rider. _You smell ever-so-faintly of pine and lavender. You cannot deny it, Lord. You have been with an elf. Not recently, but not long ago. _

The room fell silent, each mind turning over this revelation.

Murtagh, though, was waiting for it. He was waiting for the doom that would destroy what little credibility he had- it was incredible that they had not already realized it, that they had not smelled it. The younger ones were exempt, of course, since they had never smelled Galbatorix, but the older ones had to remember...

The dwarf hoisted himself up, pulled his belt a little higher, and tromped over to Murtagh. The company had his attention; no one else was moving or saying a word.

"Jus' t' ge' one 'ing s'raigh'." He began, his thick accent slurring out all the 't's. "I'm free. I'm no' one of 'em, I fell in 'his hellhole twen-y years back, and I'm free, and you won' be sayin' wha' I will and won' do. D' you 'ear me, boy? I don' care who'r your sire is, and I don' care wha' you order, 's long 's you leave me ou' of I'."

Murtagh decided he wasn't drunk and answered accordingly. "I wouldn't expect anything else, sir. The Riders have never been the lords of the dwarves, and for good reason. For me to command you would be a break in tradition and wrong on several accounts. You may do as you please, so long as you do not hurt any member of this thunder or attempt to foil any of our plans."

The dwarf smiled. "I plan t' leave."

"I will ask you to remain silent on the topic of what you have done the past twenty years and who your company has been, but I assume this is obvious."

"More 'n obvious."

_He cannot leave. _The she-dragon argued, her commanding eye trained on Murtagh. _He knows too much; he has lived here too long to be set free into the world. _

"An' who kept me 'ere?" The dwarf growled; it was amusing, to see such a small being challenging one so large. "I wan'ed t' leave the momen' I se' foot in this cursed moun'ain-"

"But Gurth, we need you." The brash Rider interrupted; Murtagh was beginning to like the fellow. "Honestly, I owe you my life."

"Repay me by returnin' my freedom!"

The unnamed Blue Rider looked stung; his dragon growled and glared at Gurth the dwarf.

_You are in no position to complain about your freedom. _The she-dragon snapped; _We kept meat in your belly and scales on your back and fire in your belly and tooth-claws in your hands. We have sacrificed for you, and you repay our suffering with distain and anger? You, empty-headed two-legged of the mountains, have not earned your stay here. _

"By that reasoning, you should be glad to be rid of him." Murtagh told the she-dragon.

_And will you be glad to put the thunder in danger? _

"It may not please me, but if it is necessary, I will do it, and you will obey."

A grim satisfaction settled in Murtagh's heart as the she-dragon took a hit to her pride; she had no choice but to obey him, and everyone there knew it. She could do nothing to stop him, nor anything to reposition herself as the leader of the thunder.

And for once in his life, Murtagh was in control. Not in total control, but this was progress, if he had ever seen it. He was in control of himself, of his emotions, of the visions of Zar'roth, of the pain imbued in his true name.

And he had control of the thunder.

"Please, introduce yourselves."

Murtagh said this while looking at the silver she-dragon, since she was clearly the clan leader. Her Rider, however, was the one to answer.

"Lord Murtagh, I am Ithrean of the House of Horin, Rider of Gleena."

And so the introductions began. The twins were Braethor and Lork, their Riders Purpor and Drakon (the one Murtagh was already fond of); the orange dragon was Xerusitor, and Gale was his Rider. Sotissa, the purple one, was the aunt of the brown hatchling, who had yet to be named.

Murtagh burned their names into his memory; they were the ones who mattered, they were the ones who were his responsibility.

The elves had saved them during the Fall; Gleena had taken control of the Thunder on her third birthday, once she would not tolerate being treated as a hatchling any longer.

"My Lord?" Braethor asked, his green eyes (darker than Halia's eyes) conveying his energy and need for open air; "What are your orders?"

Murtagh had the same question.


	49. Chapter 49 Mustering Thunder

**Hello, my lovelies! How are you? I hope everything's going well with you and whoever you care about in this world.** I, for one, have been ridiculously busy, and feel that a thousand apologies for this belated update won't do you justice. I haven't updated since December, and I'm sorry. I truly am. I will strive to do better, I promise. If I don't update in two weeks, feel free to nag me daily. SERIOUSLY.

But I do want to tell you I haven't been lax in my writing. I've actually started another original novel which WILL be complete by the end of the year. It borrows a few elements from Sons of War, and I'm thinking that when this is done, I'll post the prologue. Maybe. :)

And to be perfectly honest, reviews really do help me update faster. :) Enjoy!

**Chapter 49: Mustering Thunder **

Thorn had to convince Murtagh that they were capable of doing the impossible.

'They' wasn't just referring to themselves- to Murtagh and Thorn. It also referred to the Thunder now under their responsibility; six dragons and their Riders and the assortment of caretakers.

Gleena and Gale were the first obstacles to hurdle; the dragoness, for her stubborness, and Gale's insanity. Their partners were surprisingly calm, compared to them, but that only made the bonding more incredible, that such opposites would find such strength in the other. But it was a matter Murtagh would have to deal with later; his present circumstances were much more... demanding.

It required his full attention, and a little bit more.

He was accustomed to ordering legions of men, of archers and foot soldiers and cavalry and magicians. He was used to people cowering under his presence, others groping for his attention, and others still trying to kill him; it was the same there, except with elves and dragons and magicians with his power but not his endurance.

That was his thunder's weakness: what they had in years memorizing technique and style, they lacked in strength and experience. None of the dragons had ever been in battle; even Gleena, the oldest, had been a mere hatchling when she was whisked into safety. They had fought amongst themselves, of course, but never in the sky, never in high winds, never in storms, never at night...

And he didn't have the time to teach them.

He had no time, in fact.

And that was what made it impossible.

But strength in numbers, he hoped, could make up for their weaknesses. As long as they stuck together, watched each other's backs, they would survive.

Because if anyone survived an attack on Morzan's castle, it had to be them. No one else could do it. No one else knew Saphira was there, no one else had the power, no one else even had the legal authority. But Murtagh did- he had all those things- and by extension, so did the thunder.

Murtagh leaned on Thorn's side, wishing the hundred of voices in his mind would just be quiet and let him think.

_We don't have much longer. _Thorn sighed. _Do we have any other choice, than to send them? _

They both knew the answer, and neither of them liked it.

Murtagh opened one eye and surveyed the people around them; there was a bonfire in the center of the circle of dragons, riders, and various elves and humans.

Who could they send? Who would be of any use? They had no experience; they were trained, yes, but what use was that when they didn't know what Karth and Furdor had cast upon Morzan's castle? When they didn't even know if Saphira was still-

_Don't think like that._ Thorn grumbled. _She's a dragoness, and a tough one at that. She's alive. Besides, the two-legged false sons have no reason to kill her. They need her like they need Eragon. _

_ But what's their plan? _Murtagh asked. _What could they gain from capturing them and hiding it from the King? They've only frustrated him, and they know it. What use is Eragon to them? _

_ I don't know. _

_ I didn't expect you too. _

_ They wanted Halia for information. _

_ Eragon had information too, but they could have captured any other major Varden leader for that. Why him? And why Saphira? _

_ You capture one, you capture the other. Otherwise you're going to die. _

_ Both ways, they're going to die. _

Lenora and Gale were leaning on each other across from them; they were an odd pairing, the elf with the turban and the insane human Rider. Then again, everything about the mountain was backwards; dragons living underground, Riders waiting and waiting, vows restraining the most powerful people in the world...

Telling the Varden would do them no good; Murtagh didn't want the Varden to have any claim to his thunder.

His thunder.

It was a strange thought, but he knew he wouldn't be thinking it for long. As soon as he left, Zar'roth would replace him, they would be working to kill their own thunder...

They probably needed to tell them that, before long. Before they left, at least.

For no reason in particular, Murtagh cleared his throat. The eyes of everyone around the bonfire swiveled towards him, waiting, hoping he had something to say. Braethor looked particularly energetic; he was a good fellow, Murtagh could tell.

Murtagh had too much to say, and that was the problem.

_Well? _Gleena griped. _You've been sitting there musing, Lord. _Murtagh tried to ignore the sneer as she spat out the word. _What is running though your mind? We are your humble servants; perhaps our Minds can help yours. _

_ I have a... duty that must be fulfilled. _

He might as well have told a starving dog that he had a bone for the way their attention focused so intently on him.

_There is a dragoness who has been captured. _How could he explain this simply? _She is my brother's other half, and is being kept within the ruins of Morzan's castle._

_ Why have you not rescued her? _Gleena asked.

_I have vows, just as you did. You can do what I cannot. _

_ But that castle is so far away! _Murtagh couldn't remember that Rider's name. _When must we do this deed? _

_ Is she alive? _Another asked.

_Who are her captors?_

_ Two magicians, called Karth and Furdor. They are Galbatorix's sons, and they also have my brother. His name is Eragon, and I believe he is in Helgrind. _

_ Will we have to rescue him too? _

_ Perhaps. _

"Lord?" Lenora asked, standing up. Gale kept a hand around her ankle, like a fetter. "May I speak to you privately?"

Murtagh felt her mind touch his, excluding all the others. Most seemed a bit put out at the secrecy, but as Lenora seemed to have some authority, Murtagh put it out of his mind.

She was gentle and kept her mind to herself; that pleased Murtagh. He still wasn't used to elven minds, even after his time with Halia, and he couldn't decide whether her mind was supposed to feel like that, or she was different. Simply different. It was like her mind was a unusual size; not larger or smaller, perhaps, but like human minds were round, elves oval, and hers...

Under that analogy, her mind must've been a square.

_What are your vows? _

_ There are too many to tell you. _

_ But when will you be forced to leave, as I see you must? _

Her insightfulness surprised him. _We're not sure. _

_ Your captor is Galbatorix. _

And the cat was out of the bag. She knew. What could he say? He wouldn't lie to her, when the truth was so obvious.

_I will watch the thunder with my life, My Lord. They are my life. _

_ You know they must not know this. _

_ I do. But when you leave, and the Tyrant finds out, then what can they know? _

_ I've kept secrets from the King before. _

_ But what about these captives; Eragon and Saphira? Do you have a plan for their rescue? _

_ I'm in the midst of deciding that. _

_ But you do not know what we are capable of, Lord. _Her tone was not degrading, but... teasing. Like she had a secret that she wanted to tell him, like she thought it funny that he didn't already know it.

_ Enlighten me, Lenora. _

From across the bonfire, she raised one eyebrow; a slow smirk spread across her face.

_There are few of us left; so few of us. But we, more than you know, are Galbatorix's worst enemies, for he knows not how to control us and he knows not who or where or what we are doing. _

_ Excuse me? _Murtagh asked; what was she talking about? She must be as mad as Gale, to be saying such things. She couldn't have been talking about the Riders; the Tyrant was under the impression that he controlled them, meaning two pairs out of three... and he knew where and what the Varden was doing, so it couldn't have been them... and there were many elves, not few...

_You've heard of us, Lord. Not from the King, but there are records of my people, and I daresay you've even met the most famous of us. We've already mentioned her. _

_ The witch? Angela? _Thorn asked. _What does she have to do with you? With us? _

The smile that grew across Lenora's face was cold and scheming; it was a smile that brought both hope and suspicion to Murtagh's weary heart and mind.

_We are the Gray Folk, my Lord, and I daresay, you are in great need of our help. _


	50. Chapter 50 Blood on His Hands

**So I'm atrocious.** So much for updating in 2 weeks. But, I promised that I would this weekend, so here I finally am! After the stress of planning a formal the same weekend as my birthday while studying for finals, etc... it's a miracle I've got this up now.

But this is one of the chapters that makes me wish I had a beta. I'm not sure how well it works; you'll have to tell me. But I've already started the next chapter, so it should be up soon-ish. Hopefully.

Anyway, review away, my lovelies. It really does help my muse. :)

**Chapter 50: Blood on His Hands**

Murtagh ran a hand through his hair and struggled to understand the gravity of what Lenora had told him.

Thorn had nothing to say, and Murtagh wondered if that was because he was so stunned, or because he didn't understand.

And Lenora simply sat there, smiling, her eyes betraying her excitement.

"But why hasn't Angela done anything, then, if she is so..."

"Capable?" Lenora smiled, "She has her reasons, I'm sure. And when she sees that the time is right, she will take full advantage of the situation."

Murtagh put his head in his hands. "Like the time he poisoned half the army."

"She did? That's lovely."

Murtagh looked at her through his hands. "Not if you're the general."

"Well that is unfortunate, isn't it? Well, Lord General, you've heard what I have to say about our army; what is your opinion?"

Murtagh started pacing, his hands fluttering between Zar'roc's hilt and his too-long hair. And Lenora... Lenora's smile only grew.

"What can you make of it?"

"Of what, Lord?"

"Of- of the situation. Of Helgrind; surely you've seen it before, and surely you understand what- what is at risk-"

"Sir." Lenora gave her a look of incredulity, raised eyebrows. "But I do have a suggestion."

"I'm most open to anything that comes to your mind."

_Speak, Lenora, and give us something for our Minds to crunch. _Thorn murmured.

"Leave it."

_What? Leave what?_

Murtagh spun around, his hand fisted around Zar'rocs pommel. "Leave Saphira? Are you mad?"

_You aren't serious, are you? _Thorn rumbled, standing up, _Are you? _

"I'm perfectly serious."

Murtagh waded through a deep, fast river, forcing against the current, trying to cross to the other side.

He could see his mother.

She stood on the rocky beach, urging him to keep coming, to keep swimming, to not falter... Her bright smile warmed him from the icy liquid swirling and rushing around him.

Blue eyes, blonde hair... a slim figure, her hands reaching out for him...

Murtagh watched as the bright colors of his mother- the colors that would forever remind him of her- began melting away, sliding down her black dress to pool on the rocks below her...

And no matter how quickly he swam or how hard he yelled, she would not come back, and he knew it.

But before his weary eyes her black and white form began morphing once more; the river drained away, the wet dirt beneath him became grass, the bright sunlight around him dark, flickering light...

And he was in a massive courtyard, surrounded by hundreds of moving bodies. He looked up towards where his mother had been standing, and as she watched, color once more returned to that body.

But- those were the wrong colors. He knew that for certain. Green? When had his mother wore green? And her hair was not red...

That was most certainly not his mother.

The beautiful creature looking back at him, eyes wide with terror, was someone he had protected, rather than the other way around.

He wanted to stare at her for hours- for the rest of his life, if that was acceptable. But it was not to be; as soon, it felt, as he had started looking at her eyes, they too started draining of their color, melting away...

The stunning green disappeared into a gloomy black, and the black into a rich brown...

It was a warm brown, especially compared to the blackness before. But, now that Murtagh looked closer... a calculating brown, a suspicious, curious brown.

"You must be Eragon's companion." She began, a smile on her face.

Murtagh looked away from the face peering through the prison bars, returning his gaze to his books. At least the dwarves had decent books.

"I'm Nasuada; I thought that you might be lonely."

Loneliness meant nothing to him.

From his peripheral vision, he saw her tilt her head; "The History of Dwarvendom? What do you think of it?"

Murtagh looked up, wondering at the strange, dark skinned girl before him. The young lady with grace and a few drops of charm, and a sharp mind.

And when Murtagh awoke, he was not in a prison, not a grand courtyard, nor a river.

He was being dragged across the ground by his own two, raw hands. Blood smeared the ground around him, including his clothing and face- it was everywhere-

And he watched as his hands, not of his own accord, reached forward to grip the stone tunnel and pull him forward, his hands crying out in agony as rocks and dirt imbedded themselves into his muscle.

Lenora's turban came into view, and Murtagh couldn't help but feel helpless and hopeless as he dragged himself past her; why wouldn't his vows let him just walk?

_You know what we can do. _Lenora leaned over and hoisted him to his feet, which he greatly appreciated. _We will do everything in our considerable power to do what you have ordered. We will serve you well, My Lord. _

_ I am sorry I will not be there to help. _The thought of them taking Morzan's castle without him was despressing; he could only dream of Thorn ripping apart that hell's walls, rending age-old ballistas and towers apart, stone by stone... He could only imagine the pleasure of exploding years worth of Morzan's time...

_Time can change many things, My Lord. Do not lose hope. The Traitor will fall, and by our hand. _

_ And by our claws. _Several dragons rumbled in his head.

And moments later, Murtagh found Thorn, climbed upon his back- unwillingly- and were gone.

The mountain was lost to their sight as they climbed into the clouds, but the roar they heard was certainly not the wind.

Any blood that they would shed for Saphira would be on his hands, whether or not he was there.

And Zar'roth waited for Murtagh with open arms, red eyes glistening with pride.

Blood was on his hands, and he stood on a massive, glittering, multi-colored hill.

The hill was made of dead dragons.


	51. Chapter 51 Return to the Black City

***que evil laughter* I love this chapter! **I hope you will too- and that you'll love it enough to review! (I'm just so proud of having it up so quickly and that it's so long!)

Ready for... almost everything? 'Cause this is where it all starts going down. *more maniacal laughter*

**Chapter 51: Return to the Black City**

Uru'baen was chilly; the winds were even worse. Murtagh had to repeatedly strengthen the bubble of warm air around him as they flew over the black city; snow was in the clouds, but the ground was too warm for it to fall. And so a drizzling rain smattered the place, making it even more miserable than it had been before. Murtagh hadn't even known that was possible.

The rain steamed against Thorn's hot sides, but the wind pulled it away before it could irk Murtagh. That was a very good thing, considering Murtagh's mood.

He knew he should be happy, even content. Saphira was about to be rescued, Halia was safe; there was a chance that Galbatorix would be overthrown. But he couldn't be, because the King still had his true name, and that alone dampened the hope that burned in his heart. He knew how to open the Vault; he had three or four thousand hearts strong on his side; the King wasn't even in the city.

But he was still chained.

He still couldn't kill the Twins, he still couldn't help Eragon or Saphira (personally, at least), he still couldn't do anything openly rebellious. And he still had the impending Shadehood over him.

Thorn tried looking at the bright side of the situation- even though they couldn't kill the Twins, he proposed other ideas; maiming, severely injuring, etc. The dungeon or the dragonhold would be wonderful places to lock them. And they could steal their True Names and send them to rescue Eragon and Saphira themselves- but where would they send them? Vroengard was their only option, but they would have no way of getting there unless they built a boat. The Cave was deserted, and rightly so; they could send one of the others, but they were so weak…

_They can do that. _Thorn argued. _They're some of the best magicians in Alagaesia, right? They can build a silly wooden-water floater._

_Karth and Furdor or the others?  
_

_ Both. _

Murtagh's opinion of that was simple: that plan was far too complicated. Stealing Karth and Furdor's true names would be one thing; ordering them, an entire new obstacle.

Thorn tried ignoring that part.

Buffeting against the stinging wind, Thorn pulled into the dragonhold and shook like a wet dog; Murtagh didn't appreciate that, but then again, his mood didn't allow for a much appreciation.

The fury was building up, and if he still had to host that damned dinner...

He had a sinking feeling not all the guests would leave on their own two feet, especially if Karth or Furdor were there.

_Where have you bastard younglings been?_ Shruikan growled; his mood wasn't much better than Murtagh's.

_ You've been in the warm and in the dark and in the dry. _Thorn replied. _We've been dealing with hail. We've got reason to complain._

_ Who here doesn't? You at least are allowed to bask in the yellow-ball-light-sun and feast your eyes upon green-two-legged-grounds and-_

_ Not anymore. _Murtagh snapped, his rising fury making him unafraid of Shruikan's wrath. _When will Galbatorix return? _

Shruiken looked Murtagh in the eye- one eye, the size of a man, and the other, the size of a stone. But both seethed with years worth of unsounded rage.

_You just called him by his two-legged name. _

_ Is there a problem with that? _

Shruiken squinted, his black eye unfathomable. _You've never called him that before. _

_ At least my vows don't stop me from speaking. _

But Shruikan wasn't listening anymore. He looked from Murtagh to Thorn, Thorn to Murtagh, that unreadable expression on his pointed face.

And his nostrils flared.

_You complain of the wet and the cold. _He mused, his voice quiet, like a predator lapping around unsuspecting prey, deciding the best angle of attack. _You whine of the wet and the cold and the stone-sky-water and yet you smell of things you should never smell of. _

The massive dragon rose to his feet, using his true height to add to add to his authority.

_You smell of the Island That Is Not and you smell of smoke and the pointed-ear-two-leggeds and of a stubby-two-legged... _

His words were coming faster now; faster and hotter, like flames finding fuel...

_ You smell of Those Who Are Not and you smell of the Dead._

He paused, once more looking from Murtagh to Thorn, Thorn to Murtagh.

_You smell like One Who Is Dead is Living. _

And they were silent.

He leaned closer to Thorn and took a deep breath.

_If eating you meant that I could taste this smell for the rest of my miserable existence, hatchling, I would. _

_ Now, for both of our sakes, I have smelled nothing, I have seen nothing, I have heard nothing about whatever witchcraft you've been up too. Now you, two-legged, run downstairs before I'm tempted to eat you as well. You would be easier to swallow. _

Murtagh didn't need to be told twice; he was just leaving when yet another unpleasant surprise greeted him in the face.

The Black Letter smacked him before landing in his hand.

_Here are your duties for the next few days:_

_ Host the traditional war council, followed by dinner. The guests have already been invited _(ordered, more like it, Murtagh thought) _and the menu is already set. _

_ Do a final sweep of the wall. You are not allowed beyond it. All defenses must be prepared. _

The Varden was nowhere in sight, and rather, were days and weeks away. Why did Galbatorix want it prepared now? Why hadn't he done it himself?

_Find the damned werecat Solumbum and throw him in the dungeon. _

Lovely. Murtagh just adored putting people in the dungeon.

_If you dare try disobeying me, I will know. If you even think of it, I will know._

If the King- Galbatorix- knew even when he was thinking of rebellion, Murtagh wondered how often he was interrupted because of it. It had to be every other hour.

_Your Eternal Lord,_

_Galbatorix_

Eternal? Murtagh would be a Shade for all eternity, but he couldn't imagine that would make anything better.

He went to the kitchens to make sure everything was running smoothly and to get something to eat; he probably disturbed things more that his absence would have.

He went to his rooms for a few minutes, but it was too quiet and too empty; without Halia, it seemed rather... lifeless.

He didn't want to go back to the dragonhold; Shruikan wouldn't eat him, he knew that, but that didn't mean he wouldn't ask questions.

He took a tour of the city wall and mended a few spots, but the job was done halfway; it would be enough for a few weeks, but no more. It wasn't like Murtagh would even be himself in a few weeks. It wouldn't make a difference to him what happened to the damned walls.

He ended up two minutes and thirty eight seconds late for the dinner, but no one complained. Everyone was still mingling with drinks in their hands and heavy furs on their backs.

Why did the King always choose to have dinner parties in the throne room? Did he want to freeze his noblemen?

Murtagh took a few steps into the room and wanted to slap everyone in the room for falling silent upon sight of him. They would most certainly be silent when he was a Shade, and they would be right to do so. But now wasn't the right time.

Two more steps, and Murtagh felt the sickening feeling of someone watching him- watching him with an ill intent.

Something was off; something was very very off. The chill that ran down his spine told him that, and it wasn't just from the cold.

Karth. He should have known. But where was...?

Where was Furdor?

There were always two of them; they might as well have been conjoined. So where was he? Not in the room, which meant he was either late or not attending. But why would there be one and not the other...?

He would be patient. He would be patient and he would find out what was going on.

Dinner was served, and still, Furdor did not appear. The table was quiet but getting increasingly rowdy; Murtagh wondered if he could order the servants to not bring out more wine. He didn't bother following the conversation; he had enough problems of his own.

"They say the elves are getting restless." Someone said; Murtagh was jolted from his thoughts at the word 'elves'. At least they weren't talking about the latest fashion anymore. "Word is they're spreading out, trying to cut off the army's supplies."

Like they hadn't already.

"I think it's about time we wipe out the Varden." Another somebody complained. "They're vulnerable without Eragon, and we're wasting precious time."

"It's been weeks without any interesting news;" Another moaned. "How are they even eating?"

"Without the Varden, the elves would be nothing."

"I heartily disagree." Furdor began, a hush falling across the room- he was the Ki- Galbatorix's- son, after all. "Elves are nasty, brutish, albeit beautiful creatures. Wily and fierce. They are a force of their own, with or without the Varden."

"And he speaks from experience." Murtagh heard someone mutter.

"I do." Furdor chuckled. "Recent experience, I might add."

Murtagh watched him from the head of the table, struggling to ignore the tingling sensation in the back of his head.

_Don't look, but a particular werecat whom I will not name is somewhere behind you. I can smell him from your nose. _Thorn muttered.

Of course, someone asked what everyone was wondering. "Recent experience, Lord Furdor?"

_Lord _Furdor? Since when had he been a lord? Zar'roth would have to do something about that.

Furdor was smiling, and the stone in Murtagh's gut grew heavier.

"My brother and I recently captured an elf and a few other creatures; you could say they've been amusing us."

The way his said it, the way he looked Murtagh in the eye...

There were hundreds, maybe even thousands of female elves, surely it wasn't her...

But what constituted 'other creatures' besides a werecat and a witch?

_Calm down. _Shruikan rumbled, pushing against Murtagh's mind. _The likelihood of them having caught her twice is miniscule. _

But even Murtagh could tell the oldest dragon alive was worried. And why wouldn't he be?

"As a whole I'm quite pleased with my progress; Karth agrees with me." Here, Furdor smiled once more at Murtagh. "My brother sends his apologies, Lord Murtagh. He's occupied, at the moment."

Murtagh took a deep breath and let his eyes turn ruby, to match Thorn's. Perhaps intimidation would remind Furdor of who he was playing with.

"Doing what?" A pink-faced woman asked.

Furdor's growing smile only encouraged the simmering rage in his chest- and then it smacked Murtagh across the face. Or rather, across the head.

A pounding headache began where it had left off, throbbing right by his temple, threatening to split his head in half. Thorn yelped at the pain; Murtagh struggled to keep his stoic mask on.

"Oh, we have various specimens." He shrugged, like torturing people was a mundane, uninteresting task. "Some struggle more than others, but in the end, they all give way."

Murtagh's hand found Zar'roc's hilt.

"This is not appropriate dinner conversation." Someone complained; Murtagh considered gluing their tongue to the roof of their mouth.

"This is part of war." Furdor argued; "Prisoners of war deserve no mercy for their rebellion; my brother and I are their punishers. We execute justice for the good of science, magic, and Alagaesia, and for the King, long may he reign!"

"Hear, hear!" A few generals cried, raising their glasses.

Murtagh's wine cup remained fixed on the table, drier than a desert and gathering dust.

But as the head of the table- as the host- they were waiting on him; that was tradition. He was to lead an official toast.

Damn tradition and damn Furdor.

Murtagh leaned forward, noting how everyone shied from his red eyes. "If the subject is too weighty for the ladies, by all means, cast a silencing spell upon them, Furdor. I and our winged friends are quite interested in this work that you do, for the so-called good of this kingdom."

The message was clear, and Furdor took the bait with open arms.

"I imagined _you _would be interested, Lord Rider." Furdor smirked, taking a deep drought of wine. The other guests awkwardly lowered their glasses, realizing there would be no toast.

"Let me think, Lord. All of our specimens are remarkably resiliant, which has encouraged my brother and I to test other boundaries concerning living bodies. Magic has its uses, of course. We've learned many, many things; the variation of species we have has let us compare results."

"For example." Murtagh murmured, knowing his voice was more than loud enough to be heard from all corners of the room; Solumbum was closer, he knew. Solumbum would hear everything and report it to the Varden, if Kidasku had been killed.

"An example, Lord?" Furdor seemed pleased at Murtagh's interest; the Red Rider vaguely noted Shruikan warning him to be patient.

Hang patience, and hang the headache that ripped his brain apart.

"Is that too much for your feeble mind to understand?" Murtagh replied, his words soft but laced with poison.

"Not at all, _Lord._" Furdor spat; people were starting to scoot away from the table, like they were expecting a fight.

_You can't kill him. _Shruikan snarled. _Bring him to be, and I'll do what you can't. _

"I am merely trying to decide which example to use, Lord Rider. I've learned that faces are nearly unrecognizable without lips. The plumper the lips were, the bigger the difference.

"And I've learned that human toes faster than their fingers; take note on that one, Lord. You're the one constantly fighting fire with fire.

He was referencing Eragon. All doubt vanished from Murtagh's mind as his left hand- only his left hand- began silently shaking.

"I've learned that pale skin is luminescent, almost, in the dark. I've learned that people, if left in the dark long enough, will think the roof above them is the night sky clouded over, with numbers and pictures dancing and changing before their eyes. I've learned that people will forget who they are, if they are left alone for weeks on end.

"I've learned that people will lose the will to live, if they are abandoned and tortured in the dark. They forget themselves and they forget everything they one stood for."

Murtagh's left hand- only his left hand, the hand with his gedwey ignasia- was visibly shaking now. It was underneath the table, but out of the corner of his eye, Murtagh could see Solembum approaching. No one else, he assumed, could see the werecat.

"And what else, my Lord? I am not short on examples. I've learned that some kinds of magic appear undefeatable, but aren't. And I've learned that those who mock their captors are the ones who need the most pain to break. Others need time; the rebels need pain.

"And I'll give one more tidbit, Lord. This isn't proven undeniably, of course, but from my experience, red hair burns the brightest. Isn't that odd?"

The room was silent.

Murtagh couldn't see his breath clouding in front of him anymore.

And everyone was watching him.

Murtagh reached forward towards a tall, oddly shaped bottle, and poured himself a bit of red wine. It was bitter and vile; but it did what he intended it too.

He never drank wine, and everyone knew it.

He only drank wine in extreme circumstances.

Between the rising headache and the monster sitting before him... wine was acceptable.

He barely put the glass down on the table when a lightning bolt seared through his mind.


	52. Chapter 52 If We Are to Live

I return victorious! You guys deserve an apology for my slack; really,** I am sorry **it has been so long. I've missed you. I've missed writing. But I am back, and there is no going back after this chapter. I pray you love it as much as I do.

I will say one thing- I have put so much time into this chapter over the past week. I want it to be nothing short of perfect. Please review; please tell me if this chapter reflects the amount of work I've put into it. Please, please, please.

And can someone please help me find a way to contact CP? I know it might be a fool's hope, but gosh darnit, I am going to get this thing to him, if it's the last thing I do.**  
**

**Chapter 52: If We Are to Live**

He had never known pain like it.

He had been tortured and driven half to death. He had felt the King rip through his mind; he had felt his name being stolen from him, and he had felt his body do things against his will.

If it weren't for Shruikan, he would have fallen over; the dragon gave him the strength to at least lean on the table, to not make a fool of himself in front of everyone.

_Someone was burning his mind. _

Paralyzed, he let Shruiken support him; his left hand, with the gedwey ignasia, was glowing and burning a pattern into the table, but Murtagh could not move it.

In fact, he couldn't move at all. He didn't even have the brain power to tell himself to move before the table caught on fire.

_Morzan ran towards him, screaming, Zar'roc held high; he pushed Selena aside, and Murtagh knew that this was not supposed to happen. _

_ "Goodbye, my son." His mother murmured, running a gentle hand through his hair as she kissed his forehead. "I love you." _

_ "When will I see you again?" Murtagh asked. _

_ Selena blinked away the tears that appeared in her blue eyes. "I don't know, Murtagh. Soon, I hope." _

_ "I hope so too." Murtagh sighed, his little arms wrapped around her neck._

_ "Run, Murtagh!" Tornac cried. "Run, and don't look back!" _

_ Murtagh could see them through the trees. Monsters. He fought the shudder that raced down his spine and tried to find the other beast- the one that really mattered. _

_ There. She was beautiful, a dazzling blue. But the muzzle over her face was not beautiful, and the blaze in her eyes told him that her Rider was not in a positive state. _

_ So Murtagh slid an arrow out of his quiver and pulled back the string of his bow. _

_ Eragon was crying. Murtagh knew the man had meant so much to him, but knowing that Brom- THE Brom- had just been killed brought a gloom over Murtagh's heart too. _

_ He had wanted to thank him for killing Morzan. _

_ Eragon rushed towards Murtagh, his jaw working furiously. "Is your brain rotten?" He yelled, enraged. "Why did you just kill him?" _

_ Murtagh wiped his sword clean on Torkenbrand's jerkin. "I don't see why you're so upset-"_

_ "Upset!" Exploded Eragon. "I'm well past that!"_

_ Murtagh pulled on a helmet and chose a dwarven shield; it wasn't his taste, but it would suffice. And he had his sword- he could survive this battle. He and Tornac. _

_ And then they would get out of that mountain and never return, hopefully. _

_ He looked up and spotted Eragon and Saphira; they were hard to miss in the crowd of elbow-high dwarves. Saphira gave him a nod, but Orik cursed at the sight of him. _

_ At least Ajihad had some faith in him- Ajihad and that beautiful daughter of his. _

_ Murtagh woke from the cold, staring up into the darkness. _

_ "He's awake, brother." Was that one of the Twins? _

_ "He'll wish he wasn't, one he sees the King." _

_ And Murtagh knew he would rather be dead. _

_ He couldn't breathe; he could only think of the pain. And the King was laughing at him, laughing because Murtagh couldn't do anything about it... _

_ Murtagh watched, horrified and curious at the same time, as a tiny red claw appeared, punching through the red egg- and then- was that a head? _

_ Red eyes found him, locked on him- red eyes full of curiosity and adoration. The toothy grim seemed to beg for adventure, for fun, to play- _

_ And Murtagh, even though one eye was swollen shut, even though he had three broken ribs and a broken leg, even though he had been the victim of the King's most recent tantrum- even though this meant everything was going to get worse-_

_ He wouldn't be alone anymore. _

_ And he smiled, reaching for the little dragon that had just tumbled from the safety of his egg and into the terror called the throne room. _

_ And Murtagh decided, then and there, that he was going to protect his dragon from the King, no matter the cost. _

_ His dragon. _

_ "I know you!" Eragon cried, ripping off Murtagh's helmet. _

_ Murtagh couldn't explain the rage swelling in his chest- no, no, he could. _

_ Eragon had ruined his life. _

_ Eragon had started this miserable spiral- if it hadn't been for Eragon, he wouldn't have reached the Varden, he wouldn't have gotten captured, he wouldn't be doing this-_

_ Thorn wouldn't be in danger-_

_ So Murtagh aimed a spell at Eragon's chest, his rage burning through him. _

_ If it weren't for Eragon, his mother wouldn't have left him. _

_ Rage and terror blinded Murtagh; he only fought from reflex, not skill. He wasn't prepared for this fight- he didn't want this-_

_ They were so old and so powerful, and so pitiable- so glorious, so free-_

_ "Curse you for not showing yourself sooner!" He screamed, ensuring he was heard over the biting wind, the clang of their gold and red swords, the beats of the dragon's wings- "Curse you! You could have helped us! You could have-"_

_ And then hell consumed him. _

_I know a way of ease and grace_

_Where problems never see my face..._

_The pain started in his scull, where the King tore away his shields and dove into his mind, rooting through his memories and scanning over the success of his mission. But the King wanted something to punish -anything- and once more, Murtagh paid for saving Eragon in Gil'ead, pulling him out of prison, then for siding with the Varden, for defending Eragon, for not finding out more news from Jakolm-_

_ The pain ripped through his back like his scar had been torn open, burning like lightning and killing him-_

_ It ended with the King's exit, several torturous hours later._

_ He had to rely on Thorn's strength to last him to his rooms, dragging himself through the dark castle and choking back the throbbing pain that flared with every step. His calves were shredded- his boots, soaked with his own blood, left a red trail as he limped along. His arms were striped with the marks of whips, while his chest and back bore the same. His black eyes, broken nose, and bleeding lips reminded him of the King's first blows, while the blotchy purple and black bruises on his abs heralded the second hit._

_ The door opened on Thorn's command, and nothing ever felt as wonderful as Murtagh's bed as he flung himself down, being careful to not hurt his nose. Trembling, he tried to calm down and breathe, when the creak of rusting hinges reminded him that the elf girl was there._

_ He didn't care. He just wanted to sleep._

_ He did not hear her padding forward; he did not realize that she stood beside him, confusion and torment in her eyes._

_ But he did feel her touch._

_ Her cool hand rested on his inflamed shoulder, soft and gentle, and the following spell erased his pain like water on fire. He heard the snip of scissors- where did she get them?- as she cut away his ruined shirt, and then felt the crawling sensation of his skin growing over the wounds, healing-_

_ His mother had done the same thing when Morzan had ripped him apart. Murtagh remembered her careful fingers, her voice soothing yet pained through his screams, as Morzan blacked out on a couch._

_ "I have a surprise for all of you- a treat, if you will." He paused as the crowd kept clapping, and a stone dropped into Murtagh's stomach- his smile was far too sweet, far too mischievious... "I must admit, though, I haven't informed the one who will performing for us that she is asked to do so. Forgive me, Lady Halia. But would you do us the honor of a song or two?" _

_Stunned, Murtagh couldn't move. _

_ And then Halia turned to him. _

_ Her eyes were wild with terror, with fear, with shock. It was like someone had shot Murtagh in the gut- he couldn't breathe, couldn't see past her face, so full of fear-_

_He broke through the underbrush and let loose a violent war-cry, his simmering fury breaking through like a volcano at the scene before him. _

_ Halia stood amid a pile of bodies- alive or dead, Murtagh didn't want to know- a sword in her hands, surrounded by twenty-some-odd soldiers. They were the ones yelling and screaming, because her mouth was zipped in a straight line. _

_ Her eyes, though, revealed much more. They burned through anything that met them- soldiers were backing away from her in fear- the intensity of her expression warning everyone who came within her reach. Her flaming hair helped her appearance; it tumbled around her face and shoulders like a waterfall of blood, or lava crashing down a mountainside. _

_ Her clothes were covered in gore and splattered with blood, the red liquid dripping down her deadly blade. _

_ And it was so wrong. _

_ "But I digress! Time, time! I have years and years of quiet peace and in the end, I must rush. Now, Murtagh- your brother- he is here as well. Yes, his body may be in Helgrind, but his mind has wandered here, and there is scarce little preventing him from falling away. So you must act quickly; you have no time to wait to rescue him- that is your plan, correct?"_

_ "Once I have a means, yes." _

_ "Not a rash one, are you? Good, good. All the better."_

_ It waxes and wanes and washes away, and in the end, it's scare a day. Blagden crowed. _

_ "Yes, Blagden, time. Come, Murtagh- come!" Oromis rose fluidly, easily; Murtagh felt his bones groaning, and a spasm ran down his scar. _

_ Oromis saw his pain. "Yes, yes, you're slipping away. You're fading rather quickly- now tell me, Murtagh- do you know where the Rock is?"_

_ "Yes."_

_ "And you know how to open it?"_

_ "No." _

_ "Ah, there lies the question, for you must open the Vault, and the Vault is in the Rock. Without it, you cannot defeat Galbatorix, you cannot rescue Eragon, and you can never have your freedom. The Rock is the weapon we- the elves, at least- never knew of; you must take it from the King. You must turn it against him."_

_ "It's a rock." Murtagh argued. "The only way to turn it against him would be to bash it across his head."_

_ Across his head, the Rock will fall! Blagden shrieked. _

_ Oromis smiled, a full smile that lit up his ancient, weary eyes. "One for riddles and rhymes, Murtagh? Perhaps another time. But the Rock is much more than you think it is. It is a vast and terrible beauty; if you dare to open it- we know you have the resolve- you must withstand its' fire to control it."_

_ "Fire?" Murtagh asked. "And a madman had the strength to endure it?" _

_ "I don't understand it any more than you do." Oromis replied. "Perhaps Galbatorix's insanity is what gave him immunity against the flames. I don't know- but I suppose you will find out sometime soon."_

_ "But you've told me almost nothing." Murtagh began. "Besides that I'm dying, and so is Eragon, and he must be rescued- the latter two I assumed! You're not the first to tell me to open the Rock of Kuthain; you say I must but no one knows how too. So in the end, your words are empty and useless to me."_

_ "To you." Oromis replied, unshaken by the venom in Murtagh's voice. "But to others they may be of use."_

_ "The only people I come in contact to are evil, save Thorn and Shruikan. If the Rock will help defeat the King you will have to find someone else, because I am nothing more than a tool in the King's hand." _

_ "For now." _

_ "Find someone else."_

_ Oromis sighed. "We already had, Murtagh, but he is no longer able to help us. Don't you see? You are the only one. You alone have the ability to open the Rock and turn it against Galbatorix."_

_ "You're saying that I, the one who killed you, am the only being alive that can save Alagaesia." _

_This was impossible. This was dream, it was absured-_

_ "Exactly." Oromis replied, as calm as ever. _

_"Hello, Furdor." _

_Halia's sweet voice washed over the armory, thawing out all the cold suspicions of the rough men there. It was the voice of an innocent dove, a perfect angel, one who had never known pain or death or fear... _

_ It held nothing of the fury Murtagh had seen, none of the burning agony from days past. _

_ "How is your hand?" She continued, just as innocently. But Murtagh saw it, just like at the Gala; the lioness prowling in her mind. She was the one, after all, who had chopped off his left arm. _

_ "Both of you, leave." Murtagh snapped. "Before I make you." _

_ "Go ahead and try, Son of Morzan." Karth encouraged him; "You are alone; we all know the elf can't use magic. Two of us against you; you can't win." _

_ "You are blinded by your greed." Murtagh replied, his suspicion confirmed; they had done to Halia what Kialandi and Forona had done to Oromis- they had stolen her ability to control magic. "We all know I am more powerful than both of you; if it weren't for the fact that the King had interfered, both of your corpses would be rotting in the Arena."_

_ Karth laughed mirthlessly, though Murtagh heard a note of contempt, and the magician's aura was disturbed; their plan had already faltered. _

_ "Why do you say nothing, Lord Furdor?" Halia continued; it seemed she had talked more that day than ever before. "Are you afraid? Distraught that your schemes have not come to fruition? I can't say I'm especially sorry for you; rather, I'm... disappointed. I wish I could have kept your hand; it would go well with my collection, which will finally be complete when I serve Galbatorix your head on a golden platter. I believe I shall put an apple in your mouth; but you will be so much more than a stuffed, roasted pig when I'm through with you." She paused; Murtagh did not have the strength to stop her, nor did he want too. _

_ "Perhaps I will drown you; that sounds painful. Or should I simply freeze your skin? You've nothing to lose; your face is the ugliest I've ever seen. Perhaps I should drug you, make your senses twice as sharp, so the pain is quadrupled. Yes... that sounds like a pleasant experience, especially when I brand you. Pure flame to the skin is not a pleasant experience, I've heard." _

_ Sarcasm. It dripped from her every word, hung in the air, suspended by shock and glorious surprise; Murtagh couldn't get enough of her words. _

_ "But surely that pain is not enough; the debt you owe me must be paid. No; I must pour flaming tar down your throat; I must burn your feet and make you walk across spikes. I must rip your fingers off one by one; I must cut off your nose, stab out your eyes, tear your arms and legs off of your body-" _

_ "And then my ears and my lips, I've already heard this." Furdor sighed, faining boredom. But his aura was very different; the opposite, really. It was worried; but Halia's revenge was just beginning. _

_ "No!" Her tone lost its angelic qualities, cutting through the silent stupor, the spell her words put over the gathering crowd. "No, my Lord Furdor, you will keep your ears. That way, you will hear each and every man, woman, and child that shrieks in horror at the sight of your mangled and twisted form. And you will know that all of your schemes were in vain, that all of your goals were worthless and futile, that your life was nothing but a black, twisted, and empty. And then, when the people are so disgusted with you that they plead, that they beg for me to take you away, to hide the disgusting creature before them, I will give you to Shruikan. _

_ "I can't imagine that he'd be any more merciful. Dragons are crafty creatures; I'm sure he can teach you pain. I'm sure he has had plenty of time to devise some new method of torture to test on you; and still, I will not pity you. No one will, for your soul is blackened and damned, and I look forward to the day when I give Galbatorix your head." _

_ Murtagh couldn't have said it better himself. _

_ "I'm sorry, Lady Halia." Furdor smiled; "But your dreams are just as empty as your words." _

_She was gone. _

_ Murtagh stood frozen where he was, a chill settling in his bones. After all they had been through, the magicians were still alive, his true name had not changed, and she could no longer help him. The Vault of Souls was still closed to him, Galbatorix still reigned, Eragon and Saphira were still captives, and Murtagh could do nothing about it. _

_ She was gone. _

_ His one light had been snuffed out; his one hope had been smothered by his own doing. _

_ Because it was the right thing to do. _

_ And that's when he realized he loved her. _

_What was that? _

_Murtagh paused, trying to decide whether or not he had heard something from his ears or from his mind. _

_ Was that-?_

_ An indistinguishable whisper, soft as the wind, swept through his mind. He couldn't make out any words, nor could he decide if it was real or not. _

_ That whisper faded, the faint echoes vanishing into the nothing. But the emptiness that persued it seemed as proof to Murtagh that it had been real, not the makings of his fatigued mind. _

_ The pebble had come to a standstill, balanced against another stone. The uneven weight pushed both rocks down, so the echoes were louder than before, the whispers returned, stronger than before- _

_ Those two pebbles, those two voices, disturbed other rocks and other souls- _

_ The whispers grew into audible words, the words turned into shouts-_

_ The pebbles pushed rocks into the tumble, the rocks pulled boulders into the fray- _

_ Murtagh fell to his knees, hands clamped over his ears, trying in vain to block out the chaos in his head- _

_ The Heir has called us! The Voices cried, more and more lights bursting into existence in Murtagh's mind- The Heir summons us! Awake, awake! _

_ The shouts became a battlecry, the roar of a thousand dragons- _

_ The pebbles, rocks, boulders slid together in one massive avalanche-_

_ Murtagh tried to hide, desperate for an escape, but the darkness had been overwhelmed by the white-hot lights, so shadows were driven away and all around was the brightness- _

_ The Heir has returned! The eldunari cried, The time of darkness has passed! Flames, Foes, Fires, Fly, Fly! _

_ "The vows are broken." She told him, looking at him with an expression not of resentment, but of mixed hope and horror. "You are the Heir, and we promised to help you if you helped us." She took a steadying breath; Murtagh almost couldn't keep up, because that meant- "I am Lenora, one of the Lost, one of the Last Grey. Come, come; the others are awakened. They wish to meet you, Lord." _

_Had she just called him- lord? _

_ MURTAGH! _Thorn screamed, half of terror, half of shock- _MURTAGH! THINGS ARE LIVING HERE- MURTAGH, THEY'RE- _

_ The roar drowned out whatever Thorn was going to say, even in Murtagh's mind._

_ Time can change many things, My Lord. Do not lose hope. The Traitor will fall, and by our hand. _

_ And by our claws. Several dragons rumbled in his head. _

_ And moments later, Murtagh found Thorn, climbed upon his back- unwillingly- and were gone. _

_ The mountain was lost to their sight as they climbed into the clouds, but the roar they heard was certainly not the wind._

_ Any blood that they would shed for Saphira would be on his hands, whether or not he was there. _

_ And Zar'roth waited for Murtagh with open arms, red eyes glistening with pride. _

_ Blood was on his hands, and he stood on a massive, glittering, multi-colored hill. _

_ The hill was made of dead dragons. _

The fissure crawled between his eyes, and Murtagh wondered if flames were licking his face- it certainly felt like it. His lungs felt like they were about to explode, pressure building in his chest like a mountain was slowly crushing him-

Sicorro, Jura-

Lenora, Bid'daum, Oromis-

Eragon, Halia-

Halia-

Thorn-

They needed him.

They needed him like he needed freedom-

_Oromis sighed. "We already had, Murtagh, but he is no longer able to help us. Don't you see? You are the only one. You alone have the ability to open the Rock and turn it against Galbatorix."_

His thunder needed him.

His brother needed him.

_"Murtagh!" Eragon cried, warning him of a Kull barreling down the hill towards him-_

_ "Murtagh!" Selena began, panic in her voice, though she tried concealing it; "You must be still!" _

_ "Murtagh!" Morzan roared, his rage unleashed. "I'm going to kill you!" _

_ "Murtagh!" Torac whispered as loudly as he could,"Go! Go without me! Save yourself!" _

_ "Murtagh." Ajihad murmured, half talking to himself. "What am I to do with you?" _

_ "Murtagh," One of the Twins crooned, "We're going to have so much fun together." _

_ "Murtagh." The King sulked. "You bastard. I should kill you." _

_ "Thank you." Halia murmured, her eyes downcast. "Thank you, Lord." _

_ "Murtagh..." Thorn whimpered, bordering on the verge of hopelessness. "Don't leave me- please don't leave me..." _

_ "MURTAGH! THORN!" The nameless voice roared, "HELP US, AND WE WILL HELP YOU!"_

_ "We will, Lord." Lenora promised. _

_ "Murtagh, don't you see?" Oromis sighed. "You are the only one." _

_ "Murtagh!" The King roared, his laughter filling the cavernous throne room. "Murtagh, the Son of Morzan! The Red Rider!" Tears were in his eyes from his laughter, eyes that were fixed on Murtagh. "Only Morzan could return to me from the dead- and here he is, reborn! Murtagh Morzansson, my Right Hand! My servant and slave till the last breath!" _

Silence.

Silence.

_I know a way of ease and grace, where problems never see my face- but that, my friend, is not to be..._

_ Silence._

Murtagh blinked, and the pain was gone. The fissure had successfully cleaved his head in two, and it felt...

Strange.

The crack had started at the back of his head, a mere headache, easily ignored; time had proved otherwise. When it started prying apart his temples the pain had incapacitated him-

But now that his head was in two parts-

Why did it feel better? Why did it feel lighter, emptier?

_...Thorn?_

If Thorn could pant in his mind, he was. Murtagh could tell he was struggling to his feet; coming to grasps with his strange new mind.

_But that, my friend, is not to be, if we are to live..._

Why did Thorn's mind feel so strange? It was lighter, like his; it felt-

Murtagh stood up, regaining control of his legs and back, and looked across the table, at the noblemen and women who watched him, transfixed.

It couldn't be.

_Murtagh? _

Thorn didn't know what it felt like; he didn't know-

_"Is not to be, if we are to live always..."_

Shruiken prodded the corners of Murtagh's mind, as careful as a wolf circling a small fire-

_Murtagh? _The ancient dragon asked, softly, like he was afraid Murtagh was about to explode. _Are you Murtagh?_

Murtagh cracked his neck and flexed his fingers; taking a deep breath of the cold, crisp air.

"Lord Rider?" One of the noblemen asked. "Are you feeling well?"

Murtagh looked the man in the eye- Commander Jerrus, who had- so long ago- made a deal to trade soldiers for an elf of his own.

_Murtagh...? _Thorn whispered, afraid to believe what his Rider was thinking.

_"If we are to live always free."_

"Lord Murtagh appears to be incapacitated; can't hold his wine, I suppose." Furdor laughed; it was the laugh of someone who was desperately afraid, on the verge of panic. No one joined him.

His laughter faltered as Murtagh laid eyes on him- eyes that could see-

-Hands that could do his will-

-A mind that could choose-

And Murtagh smiled, standing taller, reacquainting himself with... himself.

"I'm doing excellently, my good lords." Murtagh couldn't wrestle down the smile on his face; his stoic mask was gone, perhaps forever. He would feel what he chose- he could act as he pleased-

Thorn rustled in the dragonhold, taking deliberate steps towards the mouth of the cave, towards the sun, and the blue sky-

_"You're his biggest weakness-his strongest card." _Kidasku had shrugged. _"And he hates you for it." _

_You are the Heir._ Bid'daum murmured, and Murtagh could feel a tangle of emotions from the ancient eldunari. _Claim what is yous. _

Murtagh turned towards the throne, facing the icy stone that had so long been the symbol of his oppression.

The Rock.

_Across his head, the Rock will fall!_ Blagden had cried.

Thorn stood at the edge of the cave he had so long called home- the home that had been his prison- and unfolded his wings, taking a massive breath of the gentle breeze.

And Murtagh drew Zar'roc of his own will, unable to contain the joy swelling in his heart.

_If we are to live always free. _

He would do the right thing.


	53. Chapter 53 Into the Vault

**Two updates in a week- I'm on a roll!  
**Oh, everything is speeding up from here. I'm trying to get the important chapters out of the way before school starts- I've been writing parts of the ending, after the climax, and it might be too much. I'll have to figure that out later.

I'm so glad you guys liked the previous chapter- but please remember to review! Please, my darlings, and feel free to pester me if I don't update again before the end of the week!

**Chapter 53: Into the Vault**

Everyone at the ill-fated dinner party charged towards the door; nothing was more frightening than Lord Murtagh, armed with a sword already dripping with a hundred years worth of blood, smiling, on the verge of laughter.

Everyone but one.

Furdor.

The magician stood rooted where he was, his eyes wide and his hands shaking.

Murtagh couldn't repress the laughter welling up in his system, the irony if the situation; the throne room had never heard his laughter before, and now, the place tried to absorb it- but how can ice defeat fire?

"You are bound by your oaths to defend the King's power," Murtagh laughed, "And yet, you want to do the opposite.

"You want to run, and you can't."

Furdor swallowed and said nothing, but his trembling hands held orange fire.

The fire only spurred Murtagh's merriness- he couldn't control this- this-

This _happiness-_

"This is goodbye, Furdor." The smile vanished from Murtagh's face; his vision was blurring, and all he could see was blood dripping from Furdor's hands- Eragon and Saphira and Halia's blood. "Because I am going to kill you."

Furdor tossed a fireball at Murtagh and bolted towards the door; Murtagh easily dodged the flames and shot a spell forward, locking the door.

_Murtagh. _Shruikan growled._ Leave one for me._

Furdor clawed at the door, tears streaming down his face-

Murtagh grabbed his neck, throwing him across the floor with inhuman strength. Screaming, Furdor collided with the icy throne, curling into a fetal position.

"Or even better." Murtagh whispered, knowing his words echoed in the room. "Shruikan can have his justice with you."

Summoning shackles, Murtagh bound Furdor and buried him underneath a dome; it muted all sound except Shruikan's growls.

And Murtagh faced the Rock.

_Claim what is yours. _Bid'daum encouraged him. _We will end the King. _

Murtagh raised Zar'roc and smiled at the throne, unafraid, confident.

He didn't know his true name anymore, but Bid'daum had granted him entrance.

"I, Murtagh, Son of None, Rider of Thorn the son of Eridor, the Heir of the Vault of Souls, Lord of the Last Thunder, command the Rock of Kuthain to open!"

The words echoed in the room until every crevice heard him; Murtagh suddenly remembered that Solembum was somewhere in the room; the werecat had appeared out of the shadows to his right.

A groan replaced his order, the sound of splitting ice rebounding in the caverous room.

The throne started trembling, like a child would before his angry mother- like Murtagh had when Morzan charged him, Zar'roc in hand.

Murtagh remembered how it had slid shut after Galbatorix returned from its depths, the red egg in hand-

Why wasn't it merely sliding open again?

Solembum padded to his right; his ears flicking back and forth.

Another groan rang through the throne room; Murtagh watched as a crack ran along the throne's right side, all the way to where Galbatorix commonly kept his right hand.

Murtagh saw what was about to happen just in time- he ducked, throwing a shield over himself and Solembum-

And the throne of Galbatorix, the Rock of Kuthain, exploded.

Murtagh covered his mouth with his sleeve as rubble and dust blinded him; Solembum sneezed. Sending a waft of fresh air through the room, Murtagh tried clearing his line of vision, but what he saw did not add up.

Someone was coming out of the Vault.

Murtagh peered through the dust and tried to make out a face, failing miserably-

That was an elf.

But he had seen the King come from the Vault before- did he have a captured elf in there?

"I am Murtagh." He began, still trying to make out a face.

"I know." Said the elf, his voice soft like a breeze, barely audible. "I have been the Watcher, just as you have been the Shackled. But we are no more."

It wasn't Oromis, but something about the elf- what Murtagh could make of him- struck Murtagh as similar...

Murtagh took a step towards the cloaked Watcher.

Oh.

The Watcher... yes, he was an elf. But he was also a dead elf, and the realization dropped a rock into Murtagh's stomach. His silver hair contrasted with his deep tan, but his blue eyes were shallow; it didn't help that he was nothing more than an image, a vapor pulled to and fro by the breeze.

And a white sword hung on his hip.

"Come, Lord." The Watcher nodded at Murtagh, smiling. "I have much to show you; there is too little time for all the Wonders in the Vault. You have duties to fulfill- but you, Solembum, companion of Angela the herbalist, one of the Gray Folk; you are not welcome here, to the haven of the Dragons Who Are No More."

Solembum bowed deeply. "I understand, Lord Watcher- Lord Eragon, may I presume?"

The Watcher nodded slowly. "Thank you, Solembum. Come, Lord Murtagh."

Murtagh followed Eragon I's delicate form as he disappeared into the gaping hole that had once been the throne- the icy stone had been blown to one side, the last remnants of the seat completely overturned.

Murtagh summoned a small werelight to guide his feet as they descended into the darkness; the stairwell was straight, thankfully, and unusually wide; three horsemen could have ridden down it. Some of the steps were crumbled, no doubt from some spell of Galbatorix's.

"Lord Watcher, what is down here?" Murtagh asked. "Eldunarya, yes, but what else has Galbatorix hidden here?"

"In good time, Lord Heir." Eragon replied. "Bid'daum knows more of it than I. He has been down here a long, long time; I have not."

"You haven't?"

"No; I only revealed myself to Galbatorix twice."

"Why only twice?"

"One, Lord, when he first came here. He was drunk on his power, and I warned him of the danger- of the power he was trying to control. And the second time, when he moved the red and green eggs into this place."

Murtagh noted the time of that; "After the blue egg had been stolen?"

"Time had not taught him anything." Eragon replied, "Except greed. Once more, I warned him that his pride would lead to his downfall."

"I can't imagine he took it well."

Eragon smiled; Murtagh wondered how he was even there; perhaps Bid'daum was supporting this wraith.

"The Watcher of the Wood warned you of the fire, correct?"

"Yes." Murtagh replied, feeling a gentle breeze kiss his cheeks. Oromis' words echoed in his mind; it had been a strange dream- half of him wondered if it had been a dream at all.

"He need not." Eragon murmured. "Your fire burns just as brightly, Lord Heir. Galbatorix came here infrequently, because of the fire. He was as ice, and you are fire. The fire of the dragons has claimed you, and the ice cannot control you any longer."

Murtagh smiled, and Eragon did too.

"They have waited a long time, Lord Heir."

With those words, Eragon vanished, leaving Murtagh in the semi-darkness.

_You did not even feel the flames. _Bid'daum mused. _You just passed through a fire, Lord Heir, and the flames were a mere breeze to you. _Murtagh knew this pleased him; he peered through the emptiness to find any sign of the hundreds of dragons living down there.

_What did Lord Eragon want to show me? _

Murtagh could feel Bid'daum smiling. _He brought you to us; we are the ones who will show you._

A pause, and Murtagh could see nothing.

_Douse your two-legged-magic-flame, Lord Heir._

Murtagh blinked at the sudden darkness, not seeing-

_They were everywhere. _

He could see shapes moving, multicolored wraiths flying, crawling, walking, tumbling through the air around him- hundreds and thousands of them. A white hatchling brushed past his leg, crowing with happiness; a mountainous brown male roared his wrath, vowing that he would serve Murtagh with his heart-

_FLAMES, FIRES, FOES, AWAKE, AWAKE! _The dragons roared, their battle-cry feeding the hope in Murtagh's heart. _AWAKE, FOR THE HEIR HAS COME TO CLAIM WHAT IS HIS!_

And there was silence.

He was impossible to miss; in the blackness, he was a star, burning with glory. And it was this dragon, Bid'daum, who silenced his thunder of dead but very much alive dragons. One massive eye- easily twice Murtagh's height, dwarfing Shruikan's black gaze- locked on Murtagh. Bid'daum was a wraith, half real, half a dream.

His authority had not diminished with time.

_We will show you our glory, Lord Heir. _He began, his voice like thunder rolling over the plains, echoing, making the earth itself tremble with fear. _Galbatorix has tarnished many of us, but not all. _

_ Any who have the strength will support this war against the Traitor. Those who have been tainted by the Black One will rebel against him, with everything left in their being. _

Something was stirring in Bid'daum's heart; Murtagh felt it, like a slow-moving lava rapidly gaining heat and speed. Like the inferno of a volcano, struggling to crest earthy chains containing it.

_ For our lost Riders, brood-mates, mothers, sires, mates, and offspring! Rise up, Lords of the Sky! Awake, for our hour has come- let our fire melt away the ice of the past century! Let us show the Traitor that we are strong- stronger than before! We have a body back- we have our Heir, and we will teach the Black One what pain he has caused us! _Bid'daum roared, his voice growing; the lava had just started bubbling over the volcano's ridge.

_For Doru Araeba! For Illyria! For the eggs and hearts he has defiled and the innocent lives he has shed! Awake! Awake, for the dawn has risen, and the bright-eye-in-the-sky burns away the pale-eye-of-night! _

_ A thousand two-legged armies could never match us! Who is this hatchling who has sent us into this sleep? Why does he still breathe the air that we once owned? Why does he still torture our brothers?_

The lava was no longer slow moving, and Murtagh could feel wrath, hot and exhilarating, crashing from heart to heart, destroying any sense of fear or doubt.

_We are not his slaves! We are dragons! We are the Rulers of the Sky, and we shall sleep no longer! Brothers! Sisters! Awake! Awake, before any more innocent lives are shed! Before the Traitor finds another torture for our captured family! Before he imprisons more of our brothers!_

_ Awake! Let our fire burn brighter than the sky-eye! Let it burn hotter than the Haradac in the summer! Let our wrath be greater than the pain he has caused us! _

_ Our Brother Heir has joined us! He has been freed of the Traitor's chains, and now we must free our brethren! _

_ Awake! AWAKE! _

_ Go, Brother Heir! _Bid'daum roared, the fury of the dragons boiling in his heart. _The gold the Traitor hid here is useless to you; the lists, the words, the books, all empty! Now is the time of action, not philosophy! _

_ The traitor can no longer enter this Haven! We guard it, we protect it- the Vault is no longer his! Eragon defends it, Brother Heir- have no fear for those of us who cannot move, for we move through you, and though our hearts are here, our minds are forever with you. _

_ Go, Brother! Rescue those who are helpless- born and unborn! If you had use of them, we would arm you with the swords here in this Vault, but they are nothing but broken talons; you have all you need! _

_ Once you have succeeded, return, and save those who are dead. But the living- they are the ones who make the future. Save them, brother, with our strength to help you. _

Murtagh needed no other prompting.


	54. Chapter 54 Black City No More

**Hello darlings! **Rather than rambling on about how crazy my life is, I'm going to let you read the gosh darn story! And please please please leave a review, because I would love to come home from taking the &#^#%# SAT this morning and find that you lovelies have written me a bunch of reviews. So... please review! And, for your sake too, because reviews really do help me to write faster.

**Chapter 54: Black City No More**

Eragon appeared out of the gloom, brighter than before, it seemed, and all the dragons parted before his glory.

"Come, Rider!" He called, his voice fuller somehow, not as wraithlike. "Come, and find what you need."

"I need nothing more!" Murtagh cried, bursting with a fire that was not his. "I must run, to save the living and free the dead!"

"And the living dead need saving as well." Eragon replied, his voice betraying his urgency. "Follow me, to see what the Traitor left, the last time he came here before retrieving the red egg."

The dead elf darted into the darkness, swifter than before, the dragons parting before his glory. Lost in the Vault, Murtagh had no choice but to follow him; but who was the living dead?

"Come, Rider, to cheat the Traitor of his last grasp of glory!" Eragon threw a rebellious fist in the air as the dragon wraiths around them roared and stomped their approval. "Come, Rider, to see the Names of many living and many dead, and some who are both! Help me, Lord Heir, help me find the name of the One Who is Not Living! Here, Lord, here, the Names."

Murtagh let a werelight guide his living eyes to see what the dead could read in the dark; at first, he thought the wall had been painted a century before and never tended, but then he realized the wall was covered in yellow pages, tacked and peeling from their bondage.

Names.

Hundreds of names- Murtagh reeled as he realized how many had been enslaved over Galbatorix's reign, and perhaps the oldest pages were from before the Fall...

"Find Shruikan's name!" Eragon implored him. "With two masters, he will be immobile, his mind torn between-"

"Contrasting orders." Murtagh realized, something like a calculating smile on his face. "And we can give his name to Lenora and the thunder."

"Well said, Lord Heir." Eragon smiled, his empty eyes for a moment filled with a life-like spark. "And I believe I've found it."

Murtagh snatched it from the wall and conquered the sudden distraction of finding his father's true name, which had to be there somewhere. "Where are the stairs, Eragon?"

Eragon spun on his heel and parted the sea of dragons once more; a speckled yellow dragon hatchling followed Murtagh, cooing and hacking as it tried to breath fire like so many of his brethren.

No more dead dragons.

Determination, hot and heavy, sprang in Murtagh's heart; the brown hatchling he had met what felt like an eternity ago would not suffer the same fate as so many of the dragons in the Vault, as lives barely lived, stolen by a madman's wounded pride.

He would die before they did.

"Here, Lord, the stairs." Eragon began. "We part ways here, for the dead are not allowed in the land of the living. I will remain the Protector; none shall pass through the fire unscathed."

"I will return, Eragon."

"Indeed." The elf smiled. "May the fire ever burn brightly in you, Lord Heir."

Murtagh smiled and pounded up the stairs, the heat of the flames- flames meant to consume- only encouraging him to run faster. Bursting into the throne room, he smiled as Solembum took a few steps back at his entrance; did he look different? He felt different, certainly; he felt _alive, _more alive than ever.

And justice needed to be served.

Furdor cowered in his prison, trembling at the sight of Murtagh.

Murtagh took a few steps forward, covered in dust from the Vault and smelling strongly like sulfur and smoke.

"Murtagh?" Solembum asked; was that the first time he had ever spoken to him? "What did the Lord Eragon require of you?"

Murtagh did not bother wiping the smile from his face, but the military side of him ordered him to control himself and complete the task at hand.

As much as Murtagh wanted to throw Furdor into the gaping hole in the floor and hear him scream as the flames consumed him, he had made a promise long ago to another deserving soul.

A soul who needed freeing.

Furdor whimpered as he approached; Murtagh's smile finally fell off of his face as images of Halia and Eragon's pain appeared before his eyes.

And this man- this monster- had done those things.

Murtagh wordlessly grabbed Furdor's collar and dragged him through the doorway of the throne room, a room that had so long been his prison- a room that he now ruled.

And as the massive oak and steel doors slammed behind the Lord Heir, the final remains of the throne collapsed into the gaping hole of the Vault.

The dragonhold was unusually empty.

Murtagh didn't need to ask why; he already knew, he already felt it from Thorn, who had escaped the dark hole that had been his home and prison cell.

"Shruikan!" Murtagh roared, his voice filling every corner of the labyrinthine dragonhold. "I have a prize for you!"

The massive dragon did not move, watching his ruby apprentice own the sky above the city, his massive eyes empty and unknowing.

"Shruikan!"

_You must leave, hatchling-no-more. _The dragon replied, still refusing to look at Murtagh. _You must leave before He realizes what he has lost and comes to reclaim his prize. _

_ It will be too late by then. _Murtagh replied. _I have crossed all boundaries; there is no hope that I will ever be enslaved again, and I have come to free you. _

_ Do not torture me with such empty promises. _Shruikan snapped, his jealousy bleeding through their touch. _Leave, before I lose my tenuous loophole through my vows. _

_ You will not harm us. _Murtagh smiled, using Shruikan's true name. _You will do none of the things Galbatorix ordered you. Instead, you will enact justice on Furdor, Son of Galbatorix. _

Shruikan didn't move.

Murtagh paused, expecting a dramatic reaction from a dragon who had been enslaved for so long.

Nothing.

_Shruikan?_

Silence.

_Thorn? Do you feel Shruikan? _

_I feel everything!_ Thorn cried; _I feel the warmth of the sun and the cool northern wind; I feel the groans of a thousand souls and I feel the fire of another million. And I feel the pain of one who is torn between two Masters, and I would please ask you to back away from him, my two-legged, for his wrath is growing with each moment and I feel that staying close to him will not benefit you. Come stand closer to the edge, instead. Right NOW. _

Thorn's mental push toppled Murtagh over, saving him from the sudden flame that landed where his feet had just been. Murtagh scrambled further away while Furdor whimpered in terror. Thorn was about to say something when-

_You have my NAME! _Shruikan roared, _My NAME! And you DARE to use it? You dare to speak my name? And what have you done, hatchling-no-more, to rid yourself of your bonds? You changed __your name, and here I rot, a century of dreaming of blue skies and northern winds and- and-_

Murtagh watched in horror as a massive, boiling tear tumbled down Shruikan's snout and landed, steaming, on the dark floor.

-_and I am just as bound as I was the black day he killed my True Rider, and now you use that same name to bind me here even further-_

Another tear, easily the size of Murtagh's torso, landed hissing on the cold stone.

_Just go. _

Shruikan collapsed, letting his hill-sized body crash to the floor in a tangle of scales and claws and tail, laying his head down and closing his eyes.

_Just go, hatchlings-no-more, and let me waste away in peace. Go, before I truly have to kill you. _

_ I came to fulfill a promise. _Murtagh whispered, clambering back up from the ground. _I promised to save one for you. Do you remember?_

Shruikan snorted.

_Furdor is one of Galbatorix's sons, and he is yours to do as you please. _

One black eye opened.

Murtagh summoned Furdor, who landed writing before Shruikan's snout.

The Black Dragon pulled back his head like he had smelled dung, his nostrils flaring and spewing smoke.

_We will return. We will free you. _Murtagh promised. _But first we must free Eragon and Saphira and Halia. _

_ Halia? _Shruikan suddenly asked, his attention fixed on Murtagh rather than the dung pile at his feet. _What do you mean, save her? Who has her? _

_ I think Karth and Furdor re-captured her, somehow. _Murtagh replied, grinding his teeth together and tightening his grip on Zar'roc. _She'll be in Helgrind with Eragon. _

_ Recaptured? _Shruikan asked, forcing himself to his feet, shaking the whole castle in the process. _How? Why? _

_ I don't know. _

Shruikan's black gaze fell upon Furdor. _By this filth? _

_ One and the same. _

_ Go, hatchling-no-more. _Shruikan began, his voice darker than Murtagh had heard it in so long. _Go. I shall deal justice to this monster. _

Murtagh gave Shruikan a wide smile and turned towards the mouth of the cave; the last thing he saw of Shruikan was the black dragon leaning down, nostrils flared, eyes burning, to inspect Furdor.

But the _sun. _

Murtagh blinked at the sudden brightness, smiling as Thorn glinted in the light.

_We have a duty, Thorn. _

_Meet me at the gate. _

Murtagh took a few steps forward, till his tips of his boots were above the city line. He stood there for a moment, standing on the same spot where he and Thorn had landed so many times, wounded, exhausted, and knowing that they were not going to get any respite.

He wiggled his toes over the vast expanse between himself and the ground, a shudder of pleasure running down his spine.

He could choose.

Just hours earlier, he had not been allowed within two feet of this edge.

Taking five deep steps back, Murtagh smiled at the edge, at the horizon he could see with his own eyes; he smiled at the vast emptiness before him.

_You wouldn't. _Thorn twirled around, hovering in the sky to watch his Rider. _Oh no you don't, you stupid two-legged. _

Murtagh could only smile.

_One. _

_ Stop it! _Thorn snarled, though Murtagh could hear the humor in his mind.

_Two. _

_ You're insane. _The dragon decided. _You're going to die. _

_ THREE! _

Without a moment's hesitation, Murtagh sprinted forward, catapulting himself into the sky, plunging towards the Black City-

He could not help but laugh as the breath was snatched from his chest; he could not help but smile as the wind yanked at this hair and clothing, dragging him towards the street-

_You IMBICILE! _Thorn cried merrily; _You absolute fool! _

Murtagh had sense enough to slow his decent so he didn't impale himself on one of Thorn's spikes, but he landed in the saddle hard all the same, out of breath and burning with adrenaline.

_To Helgrind! _Murtagh cried, leaning forward as Thorn tilted towards Leona Lake.

_To victory! _Thorn agreed, _To the Thunder!_

A rumble like a storm vibrated the air around them; both smiled at Shruikan's first stirrings of justice.

And they passed over the city wall, as free souls, for the first time.


	55. Chapter 55 Eragon's Moon

****I'm quite proud to be updating so quickly, even though this is a short chapter. The reviews definitely were an encouragement; they really made my week. :)

Lemon fresh: OH MY GOSH. LONGEST REVIEW EVER. IN THE ENTIRE UNIVERSE. EVER. I would love to pm you sometime, so could you sign in or make a new account?

Bronze Butterfly: This chapter is for you, because you reminded me that I haven't actually written about Eragon in a while, and well... things have changed, for him.

: You genius, you. I didn't think anyone would actually notice that Murtagh spoke an order rather than "words of freedom", as you put it, but I figured he would partly do that because that's all he really knows at this point. He has next to no experience with freedom; Thorn has none.

Yes, anyway, review away, my darlings! I would love some theories, and ALL WILL BE REVEALED SOON. :D

**Chapter 55: Eragon's Moon**

Eragon smiled.

111.

82.

A cow. A beautiful, purple cow.

23.

"Oh, shut up."

Eragon blinked, the numbers above him blurring and changing, confusing him.

45.

1,987.

"Shut. Up."

Eragon furrowed his brow.

Pickles. Pickles were blue.

The moon was blue.

Cows jumped over the moon.

Cows ate pickles.

Pickles. Pickles pick prickly pears.

Prickly pears.

"Shut UP YOU DAFT-!" A sigh fell upon Eragon's ears. "Sorry, elda."

"I understand." A weak, dry voice replied; a woman's voice, once sweet, but damaged from screaming and-

Prickly pears. Of course the prickly pear had hurt her.

"But do you see? This is what they did to you too; his is worse, obviously, so there's still hope for you."

"But what about him?"

"I can't tell." The first voice said.

Was that the voice of the prickly pear-?

Eragon's heart lurched as he thought of the prickly pear coming to take away the numbers-

"Honestly, Eragon, I can't hurt you, so just stop it. I'm not the prickly pear, and the numbers most definitely are not going anywhere anytime soon. You're fine."

Eragon knew that voice, somehow... that rough, deep voice...

"I'm sorry, Elda, let me just-"

"No, no, please." The second voice, the sweeter, gentler voice, interrupted. "Tend him before me. He needs it more than I do."

"Oh, you- you're stupid, to say that. We don't know-"

"If you keep healing me, they'll know you're still here." The second voice argued. "You need to retain your strength and- and gain some weight for the journey-"

"And that will never happen if you're in constant pain!"

"I had heard Eragon healed you-"

"Not entirely, now be quiet and let me sleep. Talk to Eragon, would you? He still suspects that I'm a prickly pear. Who knows; perhaps he'll think you're the moon."

"The moon-?"

"Don't ask; it's impossible for us to understand."

"He obviously understands; I've touched the boundaries of insanity, child, and everything still made sense to me. It depends-"

"-Grip something, elda, it's going to start burning in a moment-"

"-on perspective, and thank you for the warning."

"You're the moon?" Eragon croaked, far behind the conversation.

"No, Shurturgal." The Moon answered. "I am a prisoner like you."

"The prickly pear is blue." Eragon warned her.

A cry suddenly rang through the room; Eragon shuddered as the Moon gasped and whimpered. He wondered what the prickly pear had done to her.

"Please." The other prisoner murmured. "Please let me heal you."

"No." The Moon choked. "Don't. I have survived worse; heal the Shurturgal."

"He's beyond saving."

"I don't believe you."

"That's because you're stupid."

"That's because I have hope."

What was hope? Was it some kind of a weapon? Was the Moon going to use it against the prickly pear?

The other prisoner did not answer.

"Please save yourself, child."

"No one wants me."

"Then show them that they need you. Remind the Varden of your worth; I'm sure they're missing you."

"Not me. They miss my sight."

"But your sight is still-"

"Hush!"

Both fell silent; Eragon sensed a sudden electricity in the air, a tension, like something bad was about to happen. Was it because of the 66 and the 1 in the sky?

"They're here."

Both took a sharp breath.

Who was where?

"You need to go, child."

"And get lost again? Where am I supposed to go?"

"You have the chalk; don't be afraid to try. You must try. You must not give in."

"They have more soldiers now."

"Soldiers with a quarter of your ability. Go. You must try; you cannot give up!"

"Fine." The first prisoner sighed. "Fine, I'll go. I'll see you again in a few hours. Just try not to get killed this round, alright?"

"I will try."

"And tell me what they do to Eragon, aye?"

"I will."

Another sigh. "You're stupid."

"You've told me before." The Moon answered.

"And it looks like I'll have to tell you again. I look forward to it."

"Hurry, child, before they get here."

"I'm going, I'm going!" The prisoner huffed. "I'm gone now."

Eragon heard the shuffle of small feet and waited for the groan of a heavy door, but no such sound came. Only the vague echoes of something crawling down a hole, growing softer and softer till Eragon could not hear it anymore.

"Moon?"

"Yes, Shurturgal?"

"Are you going to kill the prickly pear?"

A soft chuckle. "No, Shurtugal; I cannot. But I know someone who can."

"Where is he?"

"I don't know." The Moon answered, softly, like she was afraid of her own words. "I'm not even sure he's alive."

"Sad." Eragon sighed.

Moon did not reply, but Eragon thought she might have been crying.

She was certainly crying later, when one of the prickly pear returned.


	56. Chapter 56 A Thousand Against a Rock

**I'm sorry. I am so, so sorry for the delay. **I love you all. Please keep reading, please. And just as an encouragement, I have written parts of the upcoming chapters, so I should update before Christmas. :)

And I need stuff to read (for inspiration). Any suggestions?

Feel free to review! I'll see you all soon! :D

**Chapter 56**

The wind pushed them forward, like it wanted them to save the Others who could Rule the Sky. The Bright Eye had set, but the warmth it had sent them away with remained; the Grey Eye gave no impression of wanting to stop them.

On the contrary, it wasn't to be seen.

A layer of thick-water-cold-blinding carpeted the sky, hiding them from the prying eyes of any people or armies. It was only Thorn's impeccable sense of direction that kept them on course; he knew it better than Murtagh realized, but now, he knew, was not the time to boast.

His boasting was mere hatchling-play compared the millenia some of the hearts had. Their voices brushed his mind, swelling like the blue-wet-not-sky-not-two-legged-ground and easing back, dimming like coals and flaring like flames. Some were becoming re-acquainted; others had found old friends, so longer bound to the confines of their own minds; others were searching for their other-beating-hearts, roaring names amidst the deathly crowd.

Their deafening clamor silenced Thorn's mind, letting him listen without interruption.

Murtagh, emboldened by a dragon-like courage, spoke into the mass of minds.

_Sicorro? _He shouted. _Sicorro, old friend, are you there? _

The horde shifted and shoved, mind pushing against mind like the pathetic two-leggeds did in a challenge of tooth and claw. Each fought to be heard above his neighbor, and Thorn started sifting through the minds for a reply.

_Sicorro? Sicorro, are you there? _

_ Sicorro is with Halia, is he not? _Thorn asked his rider.

_He is. _

Thorn left their thoughts unsaid.

If they could find Sicorro, perhaps they could know where the pointy-eared two-legged was.

And if they could find...

_Absolutely not. _Murtagh growled. _We are not speaking to him. _

_ Why not? _Thorn demanded, snorting smoke. _We are his lord. He will have to speak to us. _

_ And say what? An apology cannot suffice. _

_ You don't know that. _

_ With a dragon's pride and what we did? _

Thorn rumbled his dissent, but let Murtagh back to his hunting for Sicorro.

The dragon, however, decided to go hunting for a different heart.

He had a different courage than Murtagh; Thorn knew that. Murtagh did not want to speak to the Golden One out of shame; Thorn wanted to meet him, properly, for the same reason.

Thorn wondered if his rider's reluctance had anything to do with the dreams he had after the Arena- the ones he kept so carefully guarded. It hurt Thorn to be shut out like that, but he knew Murtagh would only keep his thoughts hidden if they would pain Thorn.

For some time, he had acted like his mind had not left him when he laid bleeding on the Arena floor, but Thorn had seen glimpses. A golden forest, and a gentle voice. Nothing more, except for Murtagh's discomfort when the memory returned.

Perhaps the Golden One had something to do with the Golden Forest in Murtagh's mind.

Thorn wanted to know.

He wanted to know what the elven greenery smelled like; he wanted to know about the Tree that Lived, and how it came to be. He wanted to know about the Time Before, and he wanted to know more about the Fall and the crumbling of the world...

And who better to ask than the one who had survived it all?

_Glaedr? _Thorn asked into the swirl of colored hearts. _Glaedr? _

_ Has anyone heard Glaedr the Golden? _Thorn asked, brushing from mind to mind. _Dragon of Oromis?_

Sicorro was no where to be found, and Murtagh's own heart was only more unsettled because of it.

What could keep him? Was it simply the number of minds to wade through- thousands, easily- that kept them apart?

_Look to the Rock, Lord._ Hava reminded him._ You approach it even now. The wind has been in your favor. _

_ Where should I land? I can't see much. _

The darkness, for the first time, was not to their advantage in that regard; Murtagh knew that soon he would be in the bowels of the Rock, and light would be a weakness.

_That bluff might be the entrance. _Thorn continued. _It looks wide enough for me. _

_ No- drop me into the camp first. _Murtagh replied.

_Drop you into the camp? Are you mad? You just-_

_ Exactly. _

Thorn paused, sorting through Murtagh's train of thought.

_What if they already know? _

_ Thorn. We just left. You are a dragon; no one is faster than you. _

Thorn's chest puffed as he admitted the truth.

_ Where? _

_ The general's tent, of course. Just above it- don't bother landing. Let them see you. _

_ So much for secrecy. You are a fan of the dramatic. _

_ You're right. Just fly over the camp, and that will be enough. I'll fall there. _

_ We don't want Karth to know we are here. _

_ You don't. I do. _Murtagh smiled, just like he had when he had looked at Furdor. _We have unfinished business. _

_ Keep your head, you miniscule two-legged. _Thorn berated him. _Normally you aren't rash. _

_ I'll find my head again when I'm in the Rock. Let me drift for now. _Murtagh teased.

_Are you ready? _

_ Always have been. _Murtagh smiled, pulling one leg out of his saddle and holding on against the wind. _Just keep me informed, especially if you hear the thunder. _

_Tell me if they try eating you. _Thorn told him. _I'd like a bite of a few of them. _

_ I won't let them eat me, Thorn. _Murtagh laughed. _But I will call if I need your help. _

_ You always need my help. _

_ Perhaps- this will be the test, won't it? _

Murtagh watched the flickering camp fires beneath them and launched himself into the air.

The air here was different, like drowning, plunging through the darkness. When he had flung himself from the dragonhold just hours before, the sun had been bright and merry; here, there was only the thickness of clouds and milky moonlight.

The wind was angry here, tearing at his clothes and his hair; the darkness fought his flame and tried to smother him, trying to steal the breath from his lungs.

Murtagh would not have any of it.

The camp would know he was there; who cared if Karth found out? He was no match for the Lord of the Dragons and a thousand hearts.

Murtagh's imagination came to life as he made flames lick his skin and his clothing without burning him; from the camp, he appeared a shooting star plunging to earth.

Oh- ground. Yes; he needed to slow down, though he didn't want too.

The crash must have woken the entire camp; Murtagh didn't mind. The more exhausted they were, the better.

"My Lord?" General Kennif asked, his voice gravelly with sleep and his appearance in disarray as he ran out of the commanding tent. "Has something happened?"

Had _something happened?_ Murtagh smiled at the understatement; Kennif took a step back. He had never seen Murtagh smile before.

Men everywhere were waking up and watching as Murtagh shrugged the flames off of him, letting them burn the grass around his feet before smothering them. Several horns blew, announcing his presence.

"Where is the war council?" Murtagh asked, returning to his general persona; he could not let them be too suspicious. "We need to meet immediately. There are new orders from Uru'baen."

Not from the King. From Uru'baen. From the throne room. Or, from the cavern beneath the throne.

"New orders? At this time of night? What has happened?" Kennif eagerly asked, fully awake. "Tell me, my lord, and preparations will begin immediately!"

"Tell the man to pack camp." Murtagh ordered him, ducking into the tent to study the map of Galbatorix's armies.

A pause. "What?"

"You heard me the first time." Murtagh snapped. "Wake them up and tell them to start packing. Retreat to Uru'baen."

"Retreat?" Kennif whispered. "But why? We have nearly won! The Varden is starving and hopeless-"

Murtagh stood straight, grateful that he was easily a head taller than Kennif. "Did you hear me the first time, or do I need to repeat myself? The situation has changed."

"What happened?" Kennif demanded, standing up to Murtagh. "I demand to know. What has the Varden done? My spies have reported nothing."

"They couldn't have. It only happened a few hours ago."

"But what happened?"

"Galbatorix has a new enemy."

Kennif paused, his weak mind struggling to process Murtagh's words.

"The King...?" He asked. "A new enemy? But who? Where did they come from?"

"He doesn't know." Murtagh replied, "Very few-"

_Don't get distracted! _Thorn cried, _I've found the way in!_

And with a ground shaking bellow, Thorn awoke the entire camp and probably everything in a thirty mile radius; he was much more efficient than Kennif.

"Get moving." Murtagh growled, a fresh wave of energy surging through him. "I have several matters to address."

"But- but you're the general-!"

"And your duty is to obey me!" Murtagh roared, a thousand dragons wearing off on him.

He left the tent without another word, sprinting towards the massive black Rock before him.

He had unfinished business.


	57. Chapter 57 The First Prisoner

**Well, look at this- we meet again!** I hope this is a decent apology for so long without an update, getting two in a weekend. Can I read a few more apologies, to get me through this upcoming week? I'm starting to wonder if you've abandoned me in my absence. Will you prove me wrong?

And, my darlings, here ends one question, and I have greatly enjoyed reading your theories on Eragon's companion, the other prisoner.

**Chapter 57: The First Prisoner**

Murtagh peered into the darkness and kept one hand on Thorn's hot side.

_It reeks. _Thorn complained.

Murtagh agreed, wanting to erase the smell from his mind. He knew that smell- mingled blood and sweat and smoke and rotting carcasses and _death. _As much as he wanted to run from it, to smother the rising memories and nightmares, he held his ground and stopped breathing through his nose.

_And it is too small for me. _

Murtagh kept silent as he tried listening to the silence.

_I don't want to down there alone. _

_ I'm more than capable, Thorn. _

_ Well, it's not you I'm particularly worried about. It's everything that's wrong with this place, and all the things in it. So don't wander off. _

_ I will try not too. _

_ And you have the two-legged thingy? The one you got from the little fighter from where they got Eragon? _

_ I have it. _Murtagh replied, pulling the map out of his boot. _If the thunder comes, Thorn, you- you should go. _

_ And we'll get both at once. I see, although I do not like it. Good luck, my dear little two-legged. _

_ I will be back soon, Thorn. Never fear. _

_ It is impossible for a dragon to not fear when his two-legged is in danger in a dark, deathly hole. _Thorn growled. _Do not leave my touch._

Murtagh drew Zar'roc, chained his mind to Murtagh's, and plunged into the dark.

Into the dark.

He had been in total darkness before; the dwarves prison's came to mind, as did the dungeon in Uru'baen.

In the latter case, the stench had been secondary; here it was primary. It made Murtagh's eyes water and nose burn. He kept a sleeve to his face in a failing attempt to protect his senses and kept the other hand along the wall, a memory of the map guiding him into the blackness.

Ever-so-carefully, he reached out his mind past Thorn's, wanting to know who was there in the darkness.

He had barely breached the gap from their minds when he recoiled, having found what he was looking for- and who was looking for him.

Karth.

Thorn's roar had told Galbatorix's son that they were there; but did Karth know that they were coming for him?

There was no way of knowing, and it was high time Murtagh found out.

Twenty minutes of silence, and the darkness was crawling down Murtagh's back like a pair of eyes following him.

Risking a light, Murtagh pulled out the map to find his way; he could feel Thorn on the edge of his consciousness, longing to be in Helgrind, but repulsed by the little Murtagh had already found, or, smelled.

There- that had to be the main prison, it had to be. It was so much larger than everything else on the map.

Part of him wanted to scream at the darkness, to tell the two he looked for that he was coming, that he was near- that there was hope, that they could live again-

-Halia-

-Eragon-

_ -_but for their sakes, he kept silent, even as he crept down the black hallways, past skeletons and puddles of blood and who-knows-what. He could feel Karth's mind on the edge of his; nearby, then, and looking for the intruder.

Speed. He had to be swift, decisive, before they realized it was him- if they hadn't already.

Snuffing out his light, Murtagh kept the map's image in his mind and one hand on the right wall, wanting to run but suppressing the desire to lose control.

Was that another mind, on the edge of his? Were they above or below him? He couldn't tell, since he couldn't risk probing them. He couldn't even tell who or what it was- perhaps another elf, though, the touch was wrong…

"What have we here?"

It was a man's voice, gravelly and deep. Though, was it really? Murtagh sorted through the phrase once more, trying to make out his companion in the darkness.

He poked the stranger's mind- alien, but not totally. It had a touch of familiarity, like he had felt something like it before…

_Stop it, Murtagh. _

He recoiled, mentally, though Zar'roc was out of its scabbard before the stranger could say any more. Perhaps it was a woman, with a deep voice? An adult, undoubtedly, though, where were they?

He had- he had heard that voice before-

"You're looking for Eragon, aren't you?"

The voice echoed and twisted in the dark, coming from behind and before and both sides, inescapable, foreign, and untouchable.

_Help us, and we will help you!_

"Who are you?" Murtagh snarled, not daring summon a light, for fear of giving his position away.

A flare of violet light burst into life immediately before him; the sphere hung like a star in the sky, hovering before a pair of equally violet eyes.

That was the first thing Murtagh noticed- her eyes. For yes, it was a she, and yes, she was a child, though it seemed impossible. Her gray skin was stretched across her face, taught and unhealthy, and the shadows on her cheekbones, her sunken eyes, told Murtagh she has missed a more than a month's worth of meals.

But her eyes. They were purple, a rich, deep purple, and her pupil was diamond shaped, like Thorn's. Like a dragons, for that matter. And though the rest of her was as pale as a ghost and as thin as a skeleton, well on her way to death, her eyes burned with an unquenchable flame of life, determined, couragous, and very, very, angry.

And Murtagh looked behind her black hair, hanging around her face, for the last sign that would solidify her identity to him.

And there it was, the dragon mark upon her brow.

"Do you know who I am?" She rasped.

"How are you here, Elva?"

"That's a question for a later time. You'll get me out of here."

It was not a question.

"You'll lead me to the dungeon."

This was the best kind of bartering- brief, to the point, and successful.

"This way. Do you have any food?" She whispered as the purple sphere extinguished.

Murtagh put a hand on her shoulder- so thin, so frail- and commanded the eldunari to give her enough that she could run, that she could fly, if she knew how, that she could be independent of him in a fight.

But rather than walking faster, or getting a new spring to her steps, Elva stopped, the werelight popping back up between them. Her purple eyes narrowed, and she cocked her head, so her lank hair flopped in front of her face.

"You- you are the Heir?"

So the eldunari considered her more dragon than human- interesting. What did that make her?

"The hearts do not lie."

She stood up straighter, more determined, somehow. Unafraid and confident.

"Then I swear my loyalty to you, Heir of the Vault, and to the dragons. I am already a free being; I do not belong among men or elves. But the dragons are my true companions, and considering that you are their Lord, so you shall be mine. I am worth more than the King has in his entire treasury, I promise you. You will not be disappointed in me."

He had gone from one of the most hated people in Alagaesia to total strangers swearing their loyalty to him. Even Thorn saw the irony; they admitted Elva within their ranks without further adieu.

Elva, the two-legged dragon, the latest member of the thunder.


	58. Chapter 58 A Reminder- The Synopsis

I know it has been forever. I'm sorry. But a review from HopeSproutsWings gave me the idea for a synopsis, since it has been so long. If you're up to date, you don't need to read this, but I will try to post the next chapter soon; I'm about halfway done with it.

****My darlings, thank you for sticking with me.

**The Synopsis**

Immediately after _Brisingr_, the Battle of Belatona begins, led by Eragon and Saphira. However, they are mysteriously captured in the midst of the battle, in front of everyone; Eragon wakes up alone in a cave with various nameless prisoners and two magicians. After refusing to answer their questions, Eragon was tortured. He later realizes he is in Helgrind, and another prisoner gives him a map to help him escape.

Meanwhile, Murtagh and Thorn return to Uru'baen, dreading the moody Shruikan and the gleeful King. As a reward for their victory, the King gives Murtagh a broken elf that two magicians, Karth and Furdor, had captured and driven half mad. Although she is terrified of him and barely speaks, the castle's werecat, Kidasku, helps her regain her memory.

Kidasku also encourages him to rebel, find the Rock of Kuthain, and defeat Galbatorix with it. The most Murtagh can manage is discovering the Rock is Galbatorix's icy throne.

Eragon tries to escape and fails, but manages to tell Arya and the panicked Varden where he is. However, when he is captured, he also loses his map. He befriends another prisoner who has been there longer than he has. This prisoner, however, has escaped the worst of the tortures; furthermore, the magicians (Fat and Chunky) seem to be afraid of him. Eragon cannot fathom why, but most of his energies go towards surviving rather than wondering.

Murtagh, on the other hand, finds this map during a routine inspection of the camp. He suspects that Eragon is in Helgrind, a prisoner of Karth and Furdor, but cannot fathom how he can save his brother. Furthermore, the King wants to capture Eragon himself, having no idea that Eragon is so close.

When he returns to Uru'baen, Murtagh and his elf, Halia, come to speaking terms. He takes her to explore the city and finds his old horse Tornac. The King hears of their budding friendship and threatens to take her from him, exposing her to the court and its scandals at his annual Gala. Friction between Murtagh, Karth, and Furdor increases; they want Halia, and Murtagh wants Eragon.

A few days later the King hosts one of his gladiator-style games; Murtagh is a regular contestant with his magical abilities, but when the King throws Halia into the Game, all hell breaks loose. Shruikan starts destroying the castle in his wrath- his Rider was her older brother- and unable to control her magic, Halia starts blowing up the Arena.

The King himself comes to restore Order, easily defeating Halia's impassioned charge. However, Murtagh is left mutilated and dying on the Arena floor.

While he is dying, Murtagh dreams of a golden wood; he meets Oromis and Blagden, who tell him that he must free himself and defeat the King, because Eragon is also in the Wood (the land of the dying), and cannot fulfill his duty.

Thorn, on the other hand, looks for Saphira, and realizes she must be in Morzan's abandoned castle.

The next time Murtagh, Kidasku, and Halia tour the city, they find Angela and Solembum waiting for them. Murtagh and Angela make a deal to trade secrets for a shipment to the Varden. The next day, Murtagh is summoned to the throne room. He fears the Galbatorix learned about Angela's deal, but instead, the King announces that Murtagh will be turned into a Shade after the Battle of Dras-Leona. To protect her, Murtagh sends Halia away with Tornac back home. Kidasku and Solembum also trade places in the castle.

At Dras-Leona, Murtagh and Thorn take a horde of Rider's swords from a pilfering general and discover an eldunari who calls him the Heir of the Vault. Jura, this dragoness, says that the eldunari will support him if he will free them, and encourages them to go to Vroengard. Her words are repeated by an unregocnizable voice screaming "Help us, and we will help you!" Murtagh suspects the voice came from Helgrind, but knows it was not Eragon.

Eragon, at this point, is on the verge of insanity. The other prisoner escaped, but Eragon was too weak and delusional to follow.

Murtagh and Thorn, on the other hand, visit Vroengard and discover thousands of eldunari among the ruins. Hava, Bid'daum's first mate, arranged a deal between the dragons and Murtagh: they will support him, and if they should fail, he must destroy each of them.

Galbatorix orders them back to Uru'baen, but on their way, they are stranded in the middle of the Spine because of a storm. When they stumble across an odd-smelling cave, they are attacked by an eccentric man and woman who think Murtagh is Morzan.

The woman, Lenora, realizes that Murtagh is not, in fact, his father, and that he is the Heir of the Vault of Souls. She, on the other hand, is one of the lost Grey Folk, and says she has been watching his people for him. She then introduces him to his new thunder- five Riders, one dwarf, a few humans, and a few elves, and a wild dragon hatchling. His vows prevent him from staying long, but he orders them to rescue Eragon.

When he returns to Uru'baen, Galbatorix is off reprimanding a stray governor; Murtagh hosts a dinner (as he is ordered), and Furdor practically admits to torturing Eragon and Halia, though Murtagh does not understand how he has Halia. In his anger Murtagh's true name changes; he captures Furdor, speaks his name to the Rock, and enters.

Eragon I, the Keeper of the Vault of Souls, welcomes him, and introduces him to Bid'daum. The remaining dragon hearts pledge themselves to him, and for the first time, Murtagh has hope that they could defeat Galbatorix. Eragon shows him the King's list of true names, and Murtagh then finds Shruikan's and leaves. After paralyzing Shruikan from doing anything (because of having two masters with contrasting orders), he then gives Furdor to Shruikan and leaves Uru'baen.

He arrives at Helgrind and plunges into the darkness, ready to rescue his brother and Halia. The thunder has not arrived, and Murtagh does not know if the King is after him yet.

*pants, gasps, and flops onto a couch*

I'm trying to really write, I swear. I'll keep trying.


	59. Chapter 59 Into the Black Despair

To all my Italian readers- Rome and Naples and Florence are beautiful! They inspired some of the description in the ending scenes (which I have mostly written).

Anyway- almost done with the next chapter! Pester me if I don't update soon!

****Now, please brace yourselves for the next few chapters to be not so pleasant.

**Chapter 58: Into the Black Despair**

Elva's werelight disappeared, plunging them into the darkness once more. Even with Thorn's eyes, Murtagh could pick nothing out of the black; Elva, on the other hand, didn't seem to struggle.

Murtagh steadied himself against a wall, knowing Elva was still looking at him, but unsure of how to proceed.

Something bony touched his hand- fingers, fingers like sticks, cool, and rough, with skin like leather and no muscle separating skin from bone. Elva wove her fingers through his and tugged at his arm like a child, her feet padding against the stone but making no sound.

She had no shoes.

She reeked as badly as the rest of the rock, like death and blood and sweat and filth. Out of pity, Murtagh sent a wave of energy to her through their fingers; her mood immediately lightened with the exchange, and she doubled their pace as they plunged into the dark.

_Furdor isn't here. _She told him, her mind probing at his.

_I know. He's dead._

Murtagh wondered a moment at the swell of pleasure this gave her, but decided to ignore it. They were all bloodthirsty, in the end; they were dragons getting revenge.

_Did you hear my call? _

_ Yes. _

_ Then why did it take you so long to come? I nearly killed Eragon sending it. _

Murtagh yanked her back and she hissed at the pain- even her hiss sounded draconic. _First rule: you never put another thunder member in danger intentionally, for your gain._

_ It was for his good too!_

_ He is weak as it is. You should not have risked him like that. _

A pause, then: _Yes, Lord Heir. I will apologize to him. _

Thorn, stuck pacing at the mouth of the Rock, snorted. _Still a bit two-legged. _Thorn muttered. _Or she's too tired or too loyal to fight us. _

_ We are close, but there are traps, m'Lord. _She interrupted.

_ Like what? _

_ A pit. A saw. A series of holes. All very unimaginative and boring and easily escaped. But I may not have found all of them on my way out. _

Murtagh imagined that she had found most of them; her gift (or was it a curse?) would have warned her.

Her fingers tightened around his, cool and leathery, probably because they were caked with various nastiness. But her hands were so small; they were nimble and dextrous, though Murtagh couldn't imagine how they had escaped Karth and Furdor's tortures.

When was the last time he had held someone's hand? Distracted, his mind wandered of its own accord. It must have been when Halia left, so long ago-

So very long ago- but he would see her again, in a few minutes, perhaps-

Elva yanked on his hand, alerting him to a dilemma.

_Listen._

Vague echoes wafted from the deep, a voice accompanied by some kind of melody; it sounded Elvish, if Murtagh was making it out correctly, but then the song veered far off its original course and turned into a drunken slur. Murtagh had heard that ditty far too many times, roaring from his soldiers in the dead of night.

_Hold thy peace, and I pray thee hold thy peace! _

_ Thou knave, thou knave, thou knave, thou knave-_

_ Hold thy peace, and I pray thee hold thy peace!_

_ Thou knave, thou knave, thou knave thou knave-_

One voice was struggling to sing two parts simultaneously; Murtagh didn't recognize the croaking.

_He's still here._ Elva seemed pleased. _I was worried about him. _

Murtagh's heart tripped.

_Stop. _Elva's voice echoed with sudden concern- _Stop. Stop, something's wrong. I don't know what, so don't ask a stupid question. Give me a second to figure it out. _

Murtagh drew his sword, but Elva's hand tightened around his.

_We have to go now. Right now. Right now- now, because something is really really wrong- I don't know, I can't touch it-_

Her hand was dragging him through the dark, occasionally pushing him to the side so they would miss an unseen challenge; Murtagh kept Zar'roc behind him so he wouldn't impale Elva.

_ Hold thy peace, and I pray thee hold thy peace!_

_ Thou knave, thou knave, thou knave, thou knave, _

_ Hold thy peace, and I pray thee hold thy peace! _

_ Thou knave, thou knave, thou knave, thou knave-_

The stench was only getting worse, and the floor stickier.

_ Karth isn't in the room, so we can get him out without a problem. _

_ But where is he? _

_ Further below-hurry, I can't see what's happening-_

Murtagh wondered if Elva could get Eragon to Thorn while he hunted down Karth, but disregarded the idea almost immediately.

_Hold thy peace, and I pray thee hold thy peace!_

_ Thou knave, thou knave, thou knave, thou knave-_

_ Hold thy peace, and I pray thee hold thy peace!_

_ Thou knave, thou knave, thou knave, thou knave-_

_ Is there anyone else there? _He asked Elva, his heart-rate still erratic.

She didn't reply.

_Is there? _He repeated, struggling down his rising panic. _Anyone? Anyone at all? _

Elva slammed into a door and Murtagh bored upon it with her, and they tumbled into a massive, black chamber. The stench molested Murtagh's nose and he struggled to hold down rising bile, clapping one hand over his face.

And Eragon was shouting.

_Hold thy peace, and I pray thee hold thy peace!_

_ Thou knave, thou knave, thou knave, thou knave-_

_ Hold thy peace, and I pray thee hold thy peace!_

_ Thou knave, thou knave, thou knave, thou knave-_

Murtagh threw a werelight in to the room and for a moment was blinded, shielding his eyes and nose from the wasteland before him.


	60. Chapter 60 Brothers Once More

I know this is a short chapter; at least you get two posts in a week after, what, like, five months of nothing?

Anyway, wish me luck, I'm off to my graduation!

**Chapter 59: Brothers Once More**

Eragon.

Murtagh picked a carcass out of the darkness, then another, and another. Bodies littered the room like leaves in autumn, scattered in various stages of decomposition. The floor was sticky with brown and blackened blood-

This was a battlefield, only the dead were unarmed, facing an army of two bloodthirsty magicians.

Murtagh shuddered as Elva scanned the room. Releasing his hand, she started picking through the bodies, still hurrying, stepping over bones and organs like a child leaps over fallen branches in a forest, ignoring the devastation with the single minded determination of a game.

"Shut up, Eragon." She called, like the Blue Rider was nothing more than a drunken soldier.

Eragon stuttered but never stopped singing.

_Hold thy peace, and I pray thee hold thy peace! Hold thy peace-_

"Hold thy peace, knave!" Elva screeched, slipping in a thick puddle of blood and pulling herself up by grabbing the shoulders of a skeleton.

Murtagh couldn't see anything even remotely alive anywhere, but he followed Elva, his eyes stinging and blurring while his nose burned with the stench of Death.

They were surrounded by ghosts, the bodies of people- mostly men- who had made one false step and fallen out of luck.

But one of the carcasses was singing.

At first, Murtagh thought he was just as dead as the others; at first, he thought Elva was shaking a body.

But that body had a bright pink tongue, becoming momentarily visible between syllables-

The carcass was _alive. _

"Shut up, Eragon, and let us save you." Elva snapped, turning to Murtagh. "Quick, Lord, his chains."

Murtagh crossed the remaining space between him and his brother in two strides.

That _thing_ wasn't his brother.

_That _wasn't a body. _That_ was the charred and blackened remains of a- a-

_That_ didn't even look human.

"Look for other survivors, Elva." He told her, knowing that there were none in that room.

She turned without any questions, and he could not hear her, except when she disturbed the clattering bones of an unfortunate soul.

He looked at the thing and had no idea where to begin.

The pink tongue appeared in a featureless face; Eragon, if the thing was Eragon, had no eyebrows, nor eyelashes, nor hair of any sort, or a nose tip, or lips. He probably couldn't hear them, either; he had no ears.

His face was a dull black, not a glowing brown like Nasuada or Ajihad, but- but he had been burned-

His face reminded Murtagh of charcoal- dusty, flaking-

Rage seeped into Murtagh's heart as Eragon opened his eyes- orange eyes, as orange as a summer sunset- and knew that his brother did not know him, and did not know himself.

Murtagh undid the chains without a problem; Karth and Furdor must not have dreamed of anyone getting so deep within their lair, to make it so easy to free their prized prisoner-

Eragon, just realizing that he was not alone, turned his head. Fresh flakes of charred skin, as big as Murtagh's palm, peeled off of his neck as new streams of blood dripped onto the stained table.

_Thou knave, thou knave, thou knave, thou knave-_

Murtagh met Eragon's eyes and instantly regretted it. Eragon stopped singing, blinking, and said: "The eyes are not here."

Murtagh did not reply.

"The heart can't hear me." Eragon told him. "The knaves are not here. The sun and the stars are here. Do you see the numbers-"

Murtagh realized Eragon's words were slurred because he only had a few teeth-

_Just get out!_ Thorn pushed Murtagh. _I am useless here, and he is dying, and you haven't found Halia, and Galbatorix will know-_

"Eragon, you must trust me." Murtagh told him, knowing that he would not understand. "I'm going to get you out of here. I'm not going to let you die."

"But the cow isn't here!"

"There are others who will help me, but they are not here. We have to get out, and find Halia."

Eragon shut up.

"We're going to get Saphira and hope she isn't in as bad shape as you are."

Eragon's forehead furrowed, opening up fresh rivets of blood.

"I'm your brother." Murtagh choked on the words. "And I won't let you die on my watch."

"I am looking for a heart." Eragon said, as if he was commenting on the weather.

"That makes two of us." Murtagh replied. "Let's keep looking."


	61. Chapter 61 The Numbers

**Happy Monday!**

****Two years ago today- June 3, 2011- I posted Chapter 29. That's the chapter where Murtagh, Halia, and Kidasku frolic through the city before running into Tornac, Solembum, and Angela. Two YEARS ago. Holy crap. I need to finish this thing! Hopefully my summer high will carry me through it. :) I wrote a more detailed final outline and figured out the last few details that I had been toying around with. (Like Halia's fate. Seriously. I had one plan for her, and then I was like, "Nah, better not", and now I've got her sorted out. I guess that's what happens when you're stuck on one story for TWO YEARS.) Anyway, feel free to pester me for the next few chapters.

This chapter was absolutely crazy to write. I swear. When I first thought I was done with it, it was less than 2 pages long. But my imagination decided it couldn't hold its peace. Review, my lovelies! They make me write faster!

**Chapter 60: The Numbers**

The song had been interrupted, and he did not appreciate it. It had been filled with 32 and 95, and those were very nice sounds. Now, 56 and 13 interrupted the peace, clamoring with 7 and 48 to create a mess.

The cocophany grated on his ears and made him wrinkle his nose. That made blood drip down the back of his throat, and coughing, Eragon wished 32 and 95 would just come back and drown out the chaos.

The 56 and 13 were making a mess of everything.

And the twinkling night sky, filled with his favorite stars, vanished with the sudden unwelcome visitors. The sounds- voices- that was 13- did he recognize it?

And Eragon started hearing 32 and 95 again, hearing the words he did not understand. They battled against the clangs and clashes of sound.

_Hold thy peace, and I pray thee hold thy peace!_

_ Thou knave, thou knave, thou knave, thou knave-_

"Shut up, Eragon." The 56- he had heard it before, and he didn't like it- called.

_Hold thy peace, and I pray thee hold thy peace!_

_ Thou knave, thou knave, thou knave, thou knave-_

"Hold thy peace, knave!" 56 yelled, ruining the song.

Eragon saw a bright light flashing and waving above him; red, he thought, or was that the color 9? No, no, it had to be the color cow.

No, it was a knave!

Yes, definitely a knave. No, it had to be a 13.

Eragon could see a red star floating above his head; it waxed and waned, but never faded.

"Shut up, Eragon, and let us save you." The 56 said. "Quick, Lord, his chains."

The red star floated above Eragon's head, mesmerizing, a beautiful and awful glorious ball of flameless light. It was heavenly and devilish business; it had to be 13.

_Hold thy peace, and I pray thee hold thy peace!_

_ Thou knave, thou knave, thou knave, thou knave-_

_ Hold thy peace, and I pray thee hold thy peace!  
_

_ Thou knave, thou knave, thou knave-_

"Look for other survivors, Elva." 13 said. 13 had a strange sound; Eragon didn't like it.

_Hold thy peace, and I pray thee hold thy peace!_

_ Thou knave, thou knave, thou- thou k-knave-_

13 replaced the light, or became part of it, the number joining the horrible and wonderful star.

Eragon did not know what to make of it.

"The eyes are not here." He told 13, assuming that that was what 13 was looking for. Wasn't everyone looking for eyes? "The hearts can't hear me. The knaves are not here. The sun and the stars are here. Do you see the numbers-?"

"Eragon, you must trust me. I'm going to get you out of here. I'm not going to let you die."

What was 13 saying? "But the cow isn't here!"

"There are others who will help me, but they are not here. We have to get out, and find Halia."

40? Was 40 still there?

"We're going to get Saphira and hope she isn't in as bad shape as you are."

Eragon blinked, wondering why that word- that strange and beautiful word- sounded so much like 70-something.

"I'm your brother." This seemed difficult for 13 to say. "And I won't let you die on my watch."

"I am looking for a heart." Eragon told him, remembering what 56 had told him.

"That makes two of us." 13 replied. "Let's keep looking."

But they did not look. Eragon did not understand, because the red star stayed above his head and 13 started new words and new sounds and new numbers. The blood stopped trickling down the back of Eragon's throat.

The red star did not flicker. Eragon liked that.

He did not say anything as 13 muttered and murmured; Eragon did not know why the new sounds and the new numbers were so smooth on his ears. They sounded vaguely familiar, wrapped in the darkness of his mind where the stars had not yet touched him.

"Lord?" Came a distant voice, echoing.

"Yes?" Said the red star, or the 13 next to it.

"We need to move."

13 did not reply. A pattering echoed closer to Eragon as the voice moved closer, so something else was standing beside him.

"Lord, is it really necessary to fix his lips right now?"

"He has no _face, _Elva."

"But Karth-"

"I'm giving him some dignity."

"No use if he's dead."

The red star and 13 muttered, like it had an imaginary voice telling it something amusing. "Thorn thinks you should watch your lip."

"For now, I'll watch your back."

"What about the knaves?" Eragon asked. "Is the sun watching their feet?"

"Yes." The red star answered at the same time that the voice said "No." Eragon wasn't sure which to listen too, or if they were actually the same, and he had just misheard something.

"My Lord?" Said the voice- a voice Eragon thought he possibly recognized. "He's too damaged-"

"I'm going to make him at least recognizable." The red light replied, not angrily, but with the iron clad determination that left no room for argument. "For Saphira's sake, if nothing else."

There! That sound again! That sound- Saph- Saphir-

"But what if she-"

"Hush."

"What's Saphira?" Eragon asked- had he heard that correctly? It was a beautiful word. What did it mean? Or had it really said something like sphinx or saffron or sassafras? Those didn't sound quite so good; they didn't agree with the numbers or the moon.

Eragon assumed 13 didn't like the question when he did not answer it.

"His eyes look much better, my Lord."

The red light said nothing to the voice.

"But we need to move. How do you recommend... taking care of him?"

"I'll move him. What about the others?"

A pause.

The red light sputtered and went out.


	62. Chapter 62 Music in the Silence

Happy birthday, CoralineKey!

And to everyone else: I'm sorry it's been forever. But I hope this chapter helps me earn your forgiveness. There are lots of little tie-backs here; have fun on your easter egg hunt for all of them!

**Chapter 61: Music in the Silence**

"What do you suggest, sir?" The elderly magician asked Murtagh.

Murtagh studied the half-dead soldier on the gurney and tilted his head. "His bones first, of course."

"Yes sir."

Murtagh was so accustomed to the blood and the gore, it did not bother him that he could see this man's organs, that he was mangled and choking blood, that he should have been dead.

"I'll go fight them, my lord!" The man gurgled his own blood. "I'll bring them down myself! I'll-"

"Organs next, then muscles, then skin."

"Do you know-"

"No."

"Then can you make him be quiet? I find it very distracting, how they keep talking when I'm trying to heal them."

Murtagh looked at his handiwork and hoped he had gotten Eragon's shade of blue correct. He would have Saphira help, if Eragon's eyes were too dark or too light or too gray or too green. She would help, if she could.

He prayed she wasn't in the same shape as Eragon. He didn't have the strength to heal her, or the knowledge.

_The hearts will help us._ Thorn encouraged him. _Hurry, and find Halia, and get out. _

But Murtagh could not hurry. He could not rush anything, he could not risk making another mistake and having to fix Eragon yet again- he was so close to death- how was he even alive?

"How do you recommend... taking care of him?"

"I'll move him." Murtagh replied, putting off work on Eragon's toes in favor of his fingers. "But what of the others?" He asked Elva, his hands starting to work their wonders on Eragon's crippled form.

Silence.

_Dragonling?_ Thorn asked. _What say you?_

Silence.

_Obey your Lord, hatchling. _Jura ordered.

Silence.

_But that's impossible._ Thorn sputtered. _They valued her, they were going to use her-_

Realizing he was about to make a mistake in his spell, Murtagh cut off his magical abilities, so the room was plunged into darkness as the werelight went out.

_You feel nothing? You saw nothing? Are you sure? _

"Something is deeper beneath the Rock, but I can't tell what."

In one fluid motion, Murtagh picked up his emaciated brother and turned towards the door, where they had come in.

_Thorn, is anything happening in the camp?_

_ Nothing- no, someone is running this direction. Towards the rock. I may incinerate him, if it is necessary. _

_ I'm bringing Elva and Eragon to you- can you find somewhere safe to keep them? _

_ There is an island that should be safe. _

Murtagh relit his werelight as he ran through the tunnels; he had forgotten Elva's small, weak state.

"Please, Lord." She huffed behind him, "Please, let me stay with you."

Murtagh swivelled around and crouched before her. "Get on my back."

She climbed on, wrapping her skeletal hands around his shoulders, and he started running once more.

_You're going to keep looking._ Thorn understood.

_ Something's down there. It might be her._ Murtagh wouldn't say her name.

_It could be Karth._

_ Then I will kill him. It should not take long. _

He nearly slipped in a puddle of goo, but Elva tapped him on the shoulder and whispered that he should avoid it.

_I will come back, then. _

_ Stay with them as long as possible. _

_ We won't be able to communicate. The island is too far away. _Thorn murmured, disquieted.

_The hearts will help us. _

Murtagh could see flames ahead of them; Thorn telling them that they were close. It warmed the chilly, damp tunnel.

_Lord, may I please go with you?_

_ No. You will stay with Eragon. _

_But my Lord, I know this darkness. _

_ And I have a map._

_ I know the dangers that approach._

_ And I will defeat them. You will watch Eragon, and if he dies under your care, so help me!  
_

_ He will not die, my Lord, and you know that. _

_ You will tell Thorn if any danger is nearby. That is your task. _

_ Karth fears you. _ She told him. _He fears you, but he fears your sword more than your skill with magic. He wants you to be angry when you attack. He wants you to lose control. _

Thorn kept a worried eye fixed on Murtagh as he draped and strapped Eragon into the saddle, then turned and picked Elva up so she sat behind him.

_He has a plan. I don't know what it is. Do you have a plan, my Lord? _

_ I always do. _Murtagh replied. _I rely on Thorn to do what I can't, and I know I must do this. And I must succeed. _

_ Over his head the Rock will fall. _Elva said.

Murtagh had started plunging back into the dark, but he turned, his eyes blazing- "What did you just say?"

"Over his head, the Rock will fall." Elva replied, her unearthly gaze steady and firm.

"Where did you hear that?"

"In a dream." She said, cocking her head. "A white raven told me. Do you know what it means?"

"Why did you just say that?"

"He told me too." She replied. "The raven said: "And on the door was graven evermore, here stands the one of hated Red who swore to Evil's Gore- he walks by deathly doors."

"And he told you to tell me that? Why?"

"You're the one of hated Red. I have no way of knowing."

_Take care, my two-legged. _Thorn pleaded. _Don't let the words of the dead distract you. Go. We have unfinished business. _

_ Keep an eye on her. _

_ I'll keep two. Be safe. _

_ I should be back soon. _

_ I will hold you too that. _

With a rush of wind, Thorn turned out of the mouth of Helgrind and launched himself into the pale morning sky, towards Leona Lake.

Murtagh turned back into the darkness. The map was in one hand, his sword in his other, and a werelight before him.

And all was silent.

And so he ran into the darkness, like he was plunging into the bowels of a monster.

He didn't know how long he had been running. He knew where he was, but he did not know where anyone else was.

And it was so quiet.

The Rock was silent, and so was his mind, without Thorn.

It was silent...

That was a voice.

Murtagh slowed, so the sound of his boots against the rock wouldn't interrupt the sound.

The voice rooted his feet to the ground and his hand to his sword. Like a mother comforting a child, the voice soothed his aching muscles and empty head, singing:

_Come, Rider, apple cheat one, _

_ Come wither riding!_

_ On your steed so proud and prancing, _

_ Come wither riding!_

_ No matter where I ride, _

_ The Sprine's mountains at my side..._

_Dushatorin! (Come wither fighting!)_

_ Dushatorin! (Come wither fighting!)_


	63. Chapter 63 The Second Singer

**I feel like a horrible person for not updating sooner, but this chapter was a real b*tch. **

**And as such, I hope you enjoy it! **

**And review, people. It seriously helps. **

**Oh yeah. All of you who have been dying for Halia's return? Read this and weep, (Inevera, , Zynette, and all of you other wonderful people). **

**Eragon and Saphira, together once more, in just a few chapters! Feel free to pester me! **

**Chapter 62: The Second Singer**

He knew that song.

He knew- he knew that-

Murtagh tightened his grip on Zar'roc as the song ended and the last lyric faded through the darkness.

The voice started singing in Elvish, another song of victory and domination, but Murtagh was torn between the music and his map.

The music was on his mind, and her name was on his lips.

She was alive, but he struggled to tell where she was; he could not tell height on the map very well, so he hurried on, following her voice and plunging into the blackness.

Thorn had vanished from his mind, and the feeling of being naked, of being vulnerable and weak, pervaded Murtagh's senses.

But there was no time to think of that! Murtagh's hands started tingling as the voice grew louder and louder, not from strength of voice, but because of a closing distance. He could pick out words as clearly as if she was next to him;

"Of all the worlds, of all the times,

I'm glad this one is mine,

For I can think no greater crime

Than what you have done to me.

And in this place, and in this life,

I can end our strife!

Your time will end upon my knife

And I will be forever free!"

Why was she singing of something like that? She was a lioness, but not a hell-bent murderer.

Murtagh held himself together as a faint light appeared down the hallway; he snuffed out his werelight and crept closer to her voice.

Your end will be my beginning,

And I will flourish in your bleeding.

You will fade and I will be growing,

Your death shall be my key.

And when your body grows cold and pale

I will glory in the flames

Of my victory and your demise."

Murtagh took a deep breath just before a corner, and leaned just enough to see what was ahead.

Red hair.

Her song was on his mind, her name was on his lips, and her hair attacked his sight.

Red hair swayed across her back as she leaned over a table and rearranged various metallic objects; Murtagh couldn't see what they were.

He took a step forward, out of the shadows.

He saw one nimble hand flutter into view- one clean, unblemished hand. That hand tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and toss her gorgeous hair over her shoulder.

She turned her face eversoslightly to inspect one of the trinkets; he caught sight of an angular face- a straight nose, defined cheekbones, full pink lips, long eyelashes-

"Halia." He murmured, his voice barely denting the darkness.

She did not hear him; she was humming a tune he didn't recognize, still arranging the trinkets.

"Halia." He took another step forward but could not muster the strength to speak louder.

Still, she did not hear him.

She looked healthy, she sounded strong, and the sight of her weakened Murtagh.

He took a third step, and the momentum carried into his voice. "Halia."

She froze.

A pregnant moment filled the dozen feet between them.

She picked up something on the table and turned around, her eyes finding his.

Green eyes.

Green, gorgeous eyes, filled with absolutely nothing.

Pink lips, a straight nose, a pointed chin, smooth eyebrows, two pointed ears, defined cheekbones-

Two arms, two legs, ten fingers, and he assumed ten toes-

A dangerously distracting waist-

And green, gorgeous eyes, filled with absolutely nothing.

"Halia." He repeated, a little louder, growing stronger with the sight of her healthy frame.

In a moment, a knife was pointed at his chest.

Murtagh stopped moving.

He had given her that knife.

Her eyes weren't empty anymore.

"Halia?" Murtagh whispered once more.

She moved towards her left, towards a door along the far wall.

The knife never moved from its target.

Why was there fury in her eyes-?

Of course.

She had vows. Karth had taken her true name, of course, he had forced vows upon her-

"Halia," Murtagh murmured, forcing down the panic rising in his heart- "I'm here to-"

She spun on one heel and bolted towards the door, and Murtagh charged after her, past the table loaded with knives, scapels, nails, hammers, pliers, brands, a cat-of-nines-

Murtagh threw a shield in front of him, so it slammed the door shut before Halia could try to run through it.

She spun to face him again, the knife in one hand and the other hand fisted, like she would fight him.

"Halia, listen to me." Murtagh began as gently as he could. "Halia, I'm here to help you-"

She snatched a blood splattered plate from the table beside her and flung it at him; he caught it easily. It pleased him that she was unharmed, but throwing...?

Vows!

"What are your vows?" He asked, taking a few more steps forward. She tried backing up, but was interrupted by his shield. "We can find a loophole, and you won't have to fight me! Halia, oh Halia..."

Fury blazed in her eyes, fury, Murtagh knew, because he had taken so long, because she probably had been tortured and tortured and tortured, and only healed for Karth's sake-

Her knife was starting to tremble, but the fury in her expression did not budge.

"Halia, I'm so close. I can kill Karth, and Galbatorix-"

In a single fluid motion Halia lunged forward, her knife sailing expertly towards Murtagh's chest.

"I will die before you kill my Lords!" She cried, her voice, once gentle and dove-like, a shriek that ripped through the dim light. "You are a traitor and- and-"

She nearly tripped as she stepped forward, and while one hand caught herself on a table, the other went to her head, like it suddenly hurt-

Murtagh came closer, to help her-

She sprang from her crouch and slammed into him, sending both of them tumbling onto the sticky floor, and as Murtagh wrapped his arms around her to protect her-

He felt her slim, cold fingers squeeze his throat.


	64. Chapter 64: A Dragon Cannot Be Useless

This one is a little short, but hey, it's a pretty quick update for me! :P Have a great weekend, everyone! And please please please please please please review and make my little college fangirl heart happy. (Any Supernatural fans out there? I've just joined your fandom. I even have a few fanfics in mind.)

**Chapter 63: A Dragon Cannot Be Useless**

Thorn landed on the island and wanted to shake Elva and Eragon off, so he could fly back and simply pace back and forth at the mouth of Hell.

Instead, he had to help Elva down, tell her exactly where to put her feet, how to use her hands, and then, he had to help her get Eragon down. Dry vines, the blasted things. He hated ropes. Most of his experience with them involved Murtagh's memories of being kidnapped.

And then, when they had gotten Eragon down, he woke up. He tried rolling, but looked more like a dying fish.

He was so _small_; Thorn could count the ribs on his side, the hairs on his head (none), his fingers and toes (twenty total, thanks to Murtagh), every bone and every struggling sinew.

He was so weak, so pathetic and so... so helpless.

Grunting, Eragon tried rolling over again, his abdomen and neck straining to get over his right arm.

"He's like a baby." Elva said, looking up at Thorn with her unsettling eyes. "He doesn't know anything, doesn't fear anything- he can hardly think for himself."

Thorn already knew that. Eragon had been mumbling ever since he awoke, and the absence of a stone ceiling above him seemed to render him even less understandable than usual.

"51." Eragon muttered. "The pickle is 34."

Thorn didn't have the patience to deal with Eragon's nonsense. His rider was alone, in a dark, dark, cursed hell of a Rock, and he, the powerful, mighty, free Dragon, was stuck nannying an insane, half-dead elf-ling half-brother and a two-legged dragonling who could read fears.

This was beneath him.

Thorn started pacing, but it shook the ground enough that Eragon and Elva started bouncing and the rocks were rattling. Elva said it hurt her head. It looked like Eragon's head couldn't be hurt anymore than it already was.

But Eragon managed to roll over, or, the momentary bouncing had let him twist over. Thorn expected him to try to stand up or start crawling, but instead, Eragon started licking the dirt.

Elva said she didn't see the problem, because Eragon's head was already filled with rocks. But she rolled him onto his back once more when Thorn asked her too.

When the dragonling said she was starting to get hungry, which didn't take long, Thorn went fishing in the lake. The problem was that keeping live fish in his mouth without eating them was rather unpleasant, with them flopping against his teeth and tickling his tongue. He started a fire and spit the fish in the fire and stomped off to worry some more.

Because his Rider was alone, and he could do nothing.

And Saphira was alone, and he could not save her. In fact, the thunder was probably already there, or on their way, or they had already salvaged her from the ruined castle.

Why hadn't the thunder contacted them? Where were they? What were they doing?

Where was Murtagh? Was he lost? Had he found Halia? Had he killed Karth? Was he hurt? Was he bleeding? Was he was he was he was-?

And-

And where was the King? Where was Galbatorix? He was back in Uru'baen, possibly. Raging, killing, scheming, plotting, and killing some more, no doubt.

What was he doing? Who was going to suffer first, for their ressurection?

What other tricks did he have? The hearts were no longer his- but did he have any stones? Any enchanted weapons? Any curses specially crafted for this situation? Another legion of Painless Ones? A new general or four to devise more methods of misery?

Thorn snorted in frustration and wished he could pace.

Where was the Varden? What about the dark-skinned one, and the elf that Eragon and Murtagh had rescued, and Eragon's brother and Queen Islanzandi and the dwarf king that he would probably never meet because of the unfortunate death at the Battle of the Burning Plains and where was Angela?

Where was Angela? Where was Kidasku?

And where was Murtagh? Where was the thunder?

And why did he have to be stuck here when Murtagh could be dying and Galbatorix could be raging and Shruikan could be suffering and Saphira could be bleeding? And he was stuck on a blasted piece of dirt in the middle of a lake watching what was possibly the strangest conbination of two-leggeds in the world-

Then he heard it.

Thorn instantly swiveled his head towards the sky, to the north west.

A- a pounding?

Murtagh raised himself onto his back legs to try to get a better vantage point.

Something brushed his mind, and as if it was a fly, Thorn shook his head.

Elva stopped poking the fish. "Lord Thorn?"

Thorn took a deep breath of the wind and bared his teeth.

"Lord?"

Thorn was not listening, because if dragons could smile, he was.

_Hello, Lord! _A cheerful voice brushed across his mind.

Colorful specks like burning stars were growing on the horizon.

_Let us trade places, Lord._ Lenora advised him. _You lead these ruffians to the castle, and I watch the two-leggeds. _

Thorn leapt into the sky and let out a savage roar, turning to look at the Rock once before joining his dragons.

_I will return victorious, Murtagh!_


	65. Chapter 65: Protector of the Earth

I always feel slightly awkward posting after a long break. So, if any of you are still reading this... can you tell me?

In other news, it's going to be a while till I post again. Probably. I am finally doing National Novel Writing Month this November- NaNoWriMo- and I'm going to write 50,000 words in a single month. I might put that story on FictionPress, if anyone is interested in reading about a veteran who takes up demon hunting.

ANYWAY. I am writing. This is a freaking long chapter, and I wrote it all within the past 3 hours. I am proud of myself, to say the least.

The end is so close, yet so far away...

Review, my loves! Especially if you like Thorn or Saphira!

**Chapter 64: Protector of the Earth**

To be free, to fly once more, turned Thorn's anxiety to fuel. He could not be gone too long- imagine Murtagh's horror when he was not there when he emerged from hell!

Speed. Speed was the key.

He was no stranger to speed.

Frankly, he was faster than his thunder; after years spent in the dark and in the cramped mountain, they struggled to match his lighting speed. He would circle them from above every so often, to make sure no one was going to fall from the sky or fall behind. They were all grateful for the support of the hearts, especially after the journey of coming to Helgrind from the Spine.

But it frustrated him.

His thunder needed time; they needed training. They were like the pathetic two leggeds that Murtagh once directed, the ones who were fresh from their mothers arms, who wanted blood and glory and knew little of pain and death. They needed experience if they were to be any match to him, much less powerful magicians or full armies.

But, being dragons, they were still strong. Their wing beats sent shudders through the clouds and their tails could crush a pack of Urgals.

So much potential, and no time to unlock it.

The two-leggeds were in better shape. They had spent their days in the dark building their strength, writing new spells, challenging their vows. A few elves, a few men, some old, some young. Older than Murtagh in years, much younger than him in experience.

Eragon could help them, probably better than Murtagh. Murtagh knew the barking orders of a general; from what Thorn knew, Eragon could worm his way into their hearts better.

If Eragon was fit to teach at all.

And if Eragon was not fit- how was Saphira?

Could she help him with this misfit band of aging hatchlings?

Every wing beat brought them closer to her, closer to the Dragon Queen. Thorn wished he had brought more hearts, in the event that their strength could not crush the wall erected between the sky and the dragoness.

No, they could defeat it. They could demolish it- the strength of several dragons, against a wall made by men?

Nothing was invincible- if oaths sworn by a true name could be overturned, then a cave could collapse from the brute force of a thunder.

They were a thunder. They were the Lost Dragons. They were the Resurrected. What was a pile of dust to them?

Leona Lake sped by underneath their glinting bellies; their wing beats sent shuddering ripples across the water, and the mortals on the beaches undoubtedly thought that there was an earthquake. But Thorn was grateful for the clouds and the pale morning sky; the longer they could keep the thunder a secret, the greater the shock to Galbatorix.

The greater the shock to Saphira; but surely she would understand, as soon as they reached her prison, they she and him were not alone. They had never been alone.

She would not be harmed again.

If it took the rest of his life to see her back to her splendor, he would gladly spend it watching and helping her recover.

Karth could not die soon enough.

The subtle changes in the smell of the earth told Thorn he was nearing the edge of the lake- that the castle would not be much farther.

_Haste, brothers and sisters!_ Thorn cried. _We attack the castle- tear it to the ground, and do not let a single stone stand! _

Murtagh would be pleased that the castle was no more.

From the sky, Thorn could see the castle, a smudge of black on the horizon. If they wanted to be hidden for much longer, they would need to work quickly-

Hide? How could they hide when- Thorn counted- five dragons were ravaging a castle and emerging with an angry blue dragoness?

So much for that.

It would be a tale the mortals would tell for years and years, even when Thorn's children were old. He liked that thought.

In a moment, Thorn explained Saphira's prison; he explained her likely condition, and that he was not sure how they could move her yet. The hearts could help heal her, but if Eragon had been so badly damaged, Saphira was probably the same...

There were no questions.

There was only silence and the beating of ten wings, determined on destruction.

Thorn kept the lead. Tucking his wings in, he let himself drop, gaining momentum with each passing second-

Not fast enough to kill him, but enough to break through a wall...?

He was a dragon, not a useless porcelain figure that the two-legged females played with-

He was a dragon-

He was not useless-

HE WAS A DRAGON-

DOWN DOWN DOWN DOWN

He couldn't hear anything besides the wind-

Nothing but the sound of his heart slopping his blood through his body-

Nothing but the thought of breaking every last stone in the mountain-

_SAPHIRA! _He roared the thought, so she could not have blocked it out, no matter the strength of her walls-

At the very last moment, he threw his wings open so they nearly pulled out of his shoulder sockets, and as he flew into the dragonhold, he crashed into the unwelcome wall-

The whole mountain shuddered; he could feel one of the towers collapse as the earthquake shook the cursed place-

The wall cracked, as Thorn groaned from the floor, growling as he pulled one leg from underneath him-

Again. He would do it again.

The mountain would not withstand the fury of the thunder.

Thorn, with his thunder on his side, assaulted the mountain.

As three of them beat at the wall, Thorn clambered out of the dragon hold again, straining against the wind-

Good enough. He turned, clamped his wings to his side, and dove towards the black castle.

The other three scrambled out of his way; he felt a tear in his shoulder as he attacked the wall, one of the spikes along his neck snapping off from the impact-

There! The crack had grown, and the mountain popped and shivered as the other two dragons tore it down.

_SAPHIRA! _Thorn cried.

Something stirred on the other side of the wall- something utterly _furious-_

Fury was good- fury meant she was alive, that she could still function- that she still had her instincts-

Thorn drove his shoulder into the wall, hearing the snaps of stone cracking beneath the force of five dragons-

There she was again, her mind moving, brushing against his, absolutely furious and _awake-_

Thorn threw himself against the wall, willing it to break beneath his power, demanding that it crumble beneath his resolve, because he was a _dragon,_ and she was the Queen-

There! Ha! The petty stone groaned under his weight, cracking, pieces falling around their feet, landing on their claws, but Thorn didn't mind-

He roared in triumph as a massive chunk of stone fell from the barrier, large enough that he could shove his snout into the hole.

He could smell death and blood and fire- but life, too, life that was boiling over in fury-

He shoved his leg into the hole so her could pull the crumbling away from Saphira when a sharp, unexpected pain ripped through his leg.

Growling, he pulled it back- she had drawn blood.

_Saphira! _He cried, _Let us free you!_

She roared back, but her roar did not sound so fierce as it once had.

Carefully, Thorn repeated the motion, pulling back in time that she could not scratch him, even when she tried. He snorted smoke into her prison, telling her to move back.

Why did dragonesses have to be so difficult? He saw a flash of blue as her tail- he thought it was her tail, slapped against the wall.

Didn't she understand that they needed to hurry?

As one of the hearts mended his leg, he shoved against the wall, so it crumbled enough that he could shove an entire shoulder into the gaping hole. With the other two dragons- Thorn wished he could keep their names straight- they pulled the stones away, forcing the wall to obey their will.

As soon as he could, Thorn forced his way through the hole, ignoring the protests of his torn shoulder and his scorching nostrils-

Saphira.

Oh, glorious Saphira-

She stood on all fours, as far away from him as she could. She could pounce at any moment, but instead she growled at him, threatening him to not come a step further.

That was the pose, the attitude of a powerful dragoness.

But her body did not match her mind.

She pulled her lips back to snarl at him, and Thorn watched as red blood dripped from her toothless maw. It pooled around her gums and bubbled over her lips, trickling down her chin and puddling on the floor. Her eyes were still intact, watching him hatefully, but he could tell the magicians had tried something on them- her pupils were still blue, still diamond shaped, but they were puffy and oozing something sickly green.

She was burned. Her scales, once a vibrant blue, were charred black and blue, some nothing but patches of raw skin. Those patches oozed the same sickly green puss, just like the angry red patches that had once held her deadly claws-

Chains restrained the dragoness, one around each claw, and another around her neck. She trembled, like she could hardly hold her own weight. He could see her bones protruding through her dull scales, betraying her weak form...

Each of her spikes along her back had been broken-

She snarled again, shifting, and Thorn saw that her wings were nothing but shreds of blue skin.

_Saphira! _Thorn cried, pounding against her mind, _I am Thorn, Paired with Murtagh, Lord of the Thunder, Heir of the Vault of Souls-_

She roared at him, not believing, as blood gushed from her open maw-

_Murtagh has rescued Eragon from the two-legged magicians, and he is in need of you!_

At the sound of her Rider's name she threw her head back and roared with all of her might, revealing how her underside had been hacked at with sword as well as flame-

But her roar was broken and weak, a struggle between her broken body and the air that had weighed her in this prison.

And it was _wrong. _

Rage sprang to life in Thorn's heart- rage that anyone would dare treat a dragoness, much less Saphira, like a mere thing to be ripped apart and destroyed-

He couldn't control it- the longer he stood before her and the longer she challenged him, the more wounds he found on her once gorgeous body. The rage rose in his heart like flames devouring a dry tree, swelling into a burning feeling deep in his heart-

He had no control when he stepped closer to her and touched his nose to hers. He did not fully know what was happening- he could not stop it, nor did he want too-

A beast was roaring deep in his chest, demanding that the dragoness be freed of her prison, clamoring for justice, for healing, for the death of the magicians, for the death of Galbatorix-

Thorn's entire lifetime of hatred roared to life in that moment. He remembered hatching, stumbling into the arms of a broken man, only to turn and be claimed by Galbatorix-

His first training, feeling like he was going to die of exhaustion-

Being tortured for disobedience-

Being separated from Murtagh as punishment-

Watching Murtagh have to fight in the Arena, put into danger to quench a madman's need for entertainment-

Watching Hrothgar fall, because they had no choice-

Hearing and feeling Murtagh being possessed, because Galbatorix wanted to speak to Oromis and Glaedr one last time-

No more, no longer! He was a dragon, and he was his own master! He was the Lord of the Thunder, Protector of the Earth, Dragon of Murtagh-

And his family would never be harmed again! Never!

A surge of power charged through Thorn, electrifying and invincible. It passed through him to Saphira, and he watched as it charged through her like she had just tasted fire for the first time-

As the flames subsided, Thorn stepped back, a bit startled by the sudden change in himself and the dragoness before him.

_We must fly! _Saphira cried, standing to her full height, blood still dripping down her maw even as white fangs glinted in her mouth. _We must fly, for our Riders are frail and in need of us! _

Not even the wind was faster than they.


	66. Chapter 66 Distractions- Author's Note

Hello everyone!

Yes, I am working on Sons of War.

Sortof.

A little bit.

Slowly.

Anyway, I smashed NaNoWriMo, a month long challenge to write 50,000 words of a story. However, I have lost all momentum from that venture. In the hopes of getting back on my writing feet, I have posted the first chapter of that story on FictionPress. Com.

I would love it if you would read it over and tell me what you think! Reviews really do help me write more, and I thought you might like to taste another story of mine.

So here's the problem: links are difficult to post on this site, for some reason. In case the following link doesn't work, the story is called "Immortal Prey", id 317783.

press s/3177883/1/ Immortal-Prey

Did that work? I hope that worked. Oh well.

On a totally different note, any Sherlockians out there? MIND=BLOWN. :)

I hope you enjoy it! I'll see you soon!


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